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HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

W. /.. Sheldon.

HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

SOME MEMORIES

OF HIM AND OF HIS ART

COLLECTED BY

MAX BEERBOHM

WITH PHOTOGRAVURE FRONTISPIECE
AND 57 ILLUSTRATIONS

SECOND EDITION

LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
PATERNOSTER ROW

iol

CONTENTS

PAGE

Table of Facts and Dates
A Sonnet. By Iris Tree .
Herbert and I. By Maud Tree
My Father. By Viola Tree
Memories. By Iris Tree .

From a Brother's Standpoint. By Max Beerbohm .
A Sketch. By Edmund Gosse, c.b. ....
A Tribute. By Louis N. Parker ....
From the Stalls. By Desmond MacCarthy
Herbert Tree — My Friend. By C. Haddon Chambers
To the Memory of a Friend. By Gilbert Parker .
From the Point of View of a Playwright. By Bernard

Shaw

An Open Letter to an American Friend. By W. L

Courtney

A Sonnet. By Iris Tree ......

Appendix I. — Sermon preached by the Bishop of Birming

HAM AT THE MEMORIAL SERVICE, I2TH JULY, I917

Appendix II. — Speeches made at the Unveiling of the
Memorial Tablet ......

Appendix III. — "Impressions of America"

Appendix IV. — Extracts from Herbert Tree's Note-books 310

181
187
203
■ 206
216
227

236

240

253

267

2bQ

273

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A Portrait of Herbert Tree

Maud Tree in 1882

Facsimile of a Letter

Herbert Tree (about 1882)

Herbert Tree (about 1885)

Captain Swift

Hamlet

Heinrich Borgfeldt

A Village Priest .

King John .

Laroque-Luversan

Falstaff

Gringoire

The Duke of Guisebury ,

Fagin .

Paul Demetrius .

Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone

Caricature by " Spy "

The Baccarat Case

Playgoers' Club .

Hamlet and Ophelia

Hamlet

Colonel Newcome

Narcisse

Viola and Felicity

Miss Dorothea Baird as

Svenga'.i

John-o'-Dreams .

A Snapshot, 1896

A Pencil Portrait by the Duchess of Rutland

Mr. Beerbohm Tree's Supper Party at His Majesty's

" Trilby "

at the Haymarket Theatre

Frontispx

ece

Facing p.

• •

Facing p.

i >

Facing p.

1 j

Facing p

■ 59

Facing p

■ 74

1 >

• •

•

Facing p

.89

IOI

• .

IOI

Facing p.

122

Theatre

127

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

VII

Maud Tree and her daughters, Viola, Felicity and Iris

Viola Tree. From a drawing by J. S. Sargent

Hamlet .

Herbert Tree. From a drawing by J. S. Sargent

Julius Beerbohm. From a painting by Zorn

Svengali

Herbert Tree (about 1887)

D'Orsay .

Falstaff .

Macbeth .

Shylock .

Richard II.

Herbert Tree (about 1889)

Micawber

The Man Who Was .

Zakkuri .

Isidore Izard .

Henry Higgins

Herbert Tree, 1914 .

Facing p.

143

154

t78

192

200
208
212
212
212
212
221
228
236
236
236
236

24-
253

Note.— As it has been impossible to trace the origin of some of
these illustrations, the usual acknowledgments have been unavoidably
omitted in a few cases.

NOTE

Formal and elaborate biographies of actors are apt to be not
the most inspiring kind of literature. When Herbert Tree died,
it seemed to those who knew him best that of such a biography
he would not have cared to be the subject. There was, however,
a clear need that one who had so distinguished himself in his
art, and had been in himself so interesting a character and so
unusual a figure, should not go unrecorded. Off the stage, as
on it, he was a man of much variety. He was many-sided,
impressing different people in very different ways. And it
has seemed that perhaps the best, perhaps indeed the only
adequate book about him might be such a book as this is,
comprising the views of some different people who had good
opportunities for observing him.

TABLE OF FACTS AND DATES

Herbert Draper Beerbohm, better known as Herbert Tree,
was born in London, December 17th, 1853. He was the second
son of Julius Ewald Beerbohm and Constantia Draper. (His
father, who had been born at Memel, in 18 11, was of German
and Dutch and Lithuanian extraction, had settled in England
when he was twenty-three, and had become a naturalized
British subject some years before his marriage.)

He was educated first at a school at Frant, in Kent, and
afterwards, with his two brothers, at Schnepfenthal College,
Thuringia, where his father had been educated.

At the age of seventeen or eighteen he " went into the City "
as a clerk in the office of his father, who was a grain merchant.

Soon afterwards he began to be well known as an amateur
actor ; and in 1878 he went upon the stage professionally, as
Herbert Beerbohm Tree, playing many parts in London and the
provinces.

Among his chief successes in the early 'eighties were his
impersonations of the Rev. Robert Spalding, in The Private
Secretary, and Macari, in Called Back.

On September 16th, 1882, he married Miss Maud Holt. Their
first child, Viola, was born in 1884 ; their second, Felicity, in
1895 ; and their third, Iris, in 1897.

In April, 1887, he became manager of the Comedy Theatre,
where he produced The Red Lamp.

Later in that year he became manager of the Haymarkct
Theatre. Among his chief productions here were Captain
Swift (1888), The Merry Wives of Windsor (1889), A Village
Priest (1890), The Dancing Girl (1891), Hamlet (1892), A Woman
of No Importance (1893), A Bunch of Violets (1894), Trilby (1896),
and The First Part of Henry IV. (1896).

x TABLE OF FACTS AND DATES

In 1895 he conceived the idea of building Her Majesty's
Theatre, which was completed early in 1897. ^n April of that
year he opened the theatre with a production of The Seats of the
Mighty. Among his chief subsequent productions were Julius
Ccesar (1898), The Musketeers (1898), King John (1899), A Mid-
summer Night's Dream (1900), Herod (1900), Twelfth Night
(1901), The Last of the Dandies (1901), Ulysses (1902), The Eternal
City (1902), Resurrection (1903), Richard II. (1903), The Darling
of the Gods (1903), The Tempest (1904), Much Ado About Nothing
(1905), Nero (1906), Colonel Newcome (1906), The Winter's Tale
(1906), Antony and Cleopatra (1906), Edwin Drood (1907), The
Beloved Vagabond (1908), The Merchant of Venice (1908), Faust
(1908), The School for Scandal (1909), Drake (1912), Othello (1912),
Joseph and his Brethren (1913), Pygmalion (1914), and David
Copperfield (1914).

Late in 1915, and again in 1916, he visited America, to fulfil
a contract with a " film " company in Los Angeles. During his
stay in America he travelled much and was very active in war
propaganda.

In the summer of 1917 he was once more in England. On
June 16th he had an accident to his knee. This necessitated
an operation, which was successfully performed by Sir Alfred
Fripp. On July 2nd he died quite suddenly, owing to the
formation of a clot of blood on the lungs.

His body was cremated on July 6th, and on July 7th the
ashes were buried in the churchyard of the Parish Church,
Hampstead.

Herbert Tree had received the honour of Knighthood in 1909.

He was author of three books : "An Essay on the Imagina-
tive Faculty " (1893), " Thoughts and Afterthoughts " (1913),
and " Nothing Matters " (1917).

MY FATHER

I cannot think that you have gone away :
You loved the earth — and life lit up your eyes,
And flickered in your smile that would surmise

Death as a song, a poem, or a play.

You were reborn afresh with every day.
And baffled fortune in some new disguise.
Ah ! can it perish when the body dies,

Such youth, such love, such passion to be gay ?

We shall not see you come to us and leave
A conqueror — nor catch on fairy wing

Some slender fancy — nor new wonders weave
Upon the loom of your imagining.

The world is wearier, grown dark to grieve
Her child that was a pilgrim and a king.

Iris Tree.

July 4th, 191 7.

2 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

Let me try and recollect our first meeting. It was early in
1881, at a fancy dress party — the last function in the world to
attract Herbert's presence ; but I believe his coming there was
the result of a conspiracy that he and I should meet. ' But you
cannot possibly be the old man who acts in Forgct-Mc-Not ? '
was my unpremeditated but not untactful greeting to the tall,
pale, youthful creature who was introduced to me as Mr. Beer-
bohm Tree, and who assured me, in a voice whose wistful cadence
haunted the hearer then as now, that he was none other. I can
remember nothing as to our themes of conversation, or how much
we were together, or whether there was held out any chance
that we should ever meet again. I only know that for a long
time I lived upon the hope that a combination of Fate and friends
would one day bring me face to face once more with that gentle,
compelling personality.

Goaded by this aspiration, my footsteps during the early
summer were led over and over again from Queen's College,
when study ended, to a far-off street, where, according to my
childish belief, all actors congregated at the windows and upon
the steps of the Garrick Club. It is a score of years since then,
and I may be permitted to say that in hundreds of passings
and haltings near that historic, histrionic pile, I have only
once caught a glimpse of a notability ; this, an eminent
divine, seated at a table in the window, discussing lunch with
his lawyer.

The Garrick Club— how Herbert loved it ! And how proud he
was when he became a member ! And how many thousand
times have I taken him, or called for him, there ! ' I like its
glare," said Disraeli of Brighton. ' I like its gloom," said
Herbert of the Garrick.

More with the intention of recalling myself to his memory than
of following his advice should it be vouchsafed, I wrote to him —
in May, perhaps — asking him if my petty successes on the
amateur stage were an earnest of great things to come, were I
to decide on leaving the Cloister of learning for the Hearth of the
green-room. I watched for his answer day after day, still ever
and anon penetrating to the purlieus of Covent Garden with the
idea of a chance encounter. Vain hopes, both ! No letter came
— and no vision. He was all but banished from my category

HERBERT AND I 8

of possible excitements when, towards the end of summer — while
I was away on a visit — his long-delayed answer reached me.

" My dear Miss Holt,

" Don't go on the stage unless you feel you must. How
are you ? We shall meet in the autumn.

" Yours sincerely,

" H. B. T."

And in the winter he came to see me. I had rather nice big
rooms over a shop in Orchard Street, and he came more and more
often as the days drew in. " A young man to tea," was rather a
departure ; and Mrs. Newman — bless her ! — with whom I lived,
used to think it incumbent upon her to preside ; but on the whole
we were left alone, and he used to tell me stories, and to say
poetry to me : " Jim," " In the Mission Garden " and " Aux
Italicns." There was one song (" Rest," by J. S. Payne) that
he loved and used often dreamily to murmur :

" Silence sleeping on a waste of ocean —

Sun down — westward traileth a red streak —
One white sea-bird, poised with scarce a motion,

Challenges the stillness with a shriek,
Challenges the stillness, upward wheeling

Where some rocky peak containeth her rude nest ;
For the shadows o'er the waters they come stealing,

And they whisper to the silence, ' There is Rest.'

" Down where the broad Zambesi river

Glides away into some shadowy lagoon,
Lies the antelope, and hears the leaflets quiver.

Shaken by the sultry breath of noon ;
Hears the sluggish water ripple in its flowing ;

Feels the atmosphere, with fragrance all-opprest ;
Dreams his dreams, and the sweetest is the knowing

That above him, and around him, there is Rest.

" Centuries have faded into shadow ;

Earth is fertile with the dust of man's decay ;
Pilgrims all they were to some bright El Dorado,

But they wearied, and they fainted, by the way.
Some were sick with the surfeiture of pleasure ;

Some were bowed beneath a care-encumber'd breast ;
But they all trod in turn Life's stately measure,

And all paused betimes to wonder, ' Is there Rest ? '

4 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

" Look, O man ! to the limitless Hereafter,

When thy Sense shall be lifted from its dust,
When thy Anguish shall be melted into Laughter,

When thy Love shall be sever'd from its Lust.
Then thy Spirit shall be sanctified with seeing

The Ultimate dim Thulc of the Blest,
And the Passion-haunted fever of thy being

Shall be drifted in a Universe of Rest."

I fancy he wrote to me while I was away for the Christmas
holidays, but I suppose neither of us was seriously thinking about
the other — though, " remembering how I love thy company,"
it is certain that I looked forward with intense excitement to
seeing him again. And he comes — once a week, perhaps, and
then more often. He tells me of his work and his ambitions,
while I neglect my Greek to listen to him. (In those days my
grail was a University degree.)

An excuse for his frequent visits was the discussion of a one-
act tragedy, Merely Players, which he thought wonderful, and
whose leading part, Pantaleone, appealed strongly to him. The
story was practically that of Pagliacci, and there was a vague
idea of producing it at a matinee, and of my acting the heroine
in it. I cannot remember that his hopes of it ever came to frui-
tion, even in after-years ; but a great deal of time was spent,
delightfully, over the incomplete and densely-annotated manu-
script.

One evening — it must have been the 12th of February, 1882
— Herbert asked me to be his wife. We were standing over the
fire, leaning on the mantelpiece, and he took my hand and kept
it while he spoke. I was dismayed and bewildered — not in the
least realizing the great and wonderful honour paid me. I
thought of puny things : What would College say ? An actor !
What would my sister say — she who until then had ruled my
destiny ? But I cannot have hesitated long, for on Valentine's
Day we walked together the two miles from my home to the
home of Herbert's people, to declare ourselves engaged. It was
magic weather — " bare winter suddenly was changed to spring '
— and there were daffodils and jonquils all the way. Our hearts
sang ; we were absolutely happy.

Herbert's relations and friends received me with open arms,
and it became a custom for us to lunch at his father's house every

HERBERT AND I 5

Sunday. (His love and veneration for his father were bound-
less.) From there we used often to go to the Routledges', who
lived opposite. Edmund Routledge dallied, in the intervals of
book-publishing, with amateur acting. He and I had already
met and exchanged vows as Benedick and Beatrice at St.
George's Hall. His family — wife, sons and beautiful daughters
J — were already intimate friends. Dear Edmund Routledge,

of kind memory, you cherished the belief that it was you who
brought Herbert and me together ; and I like to think it was
so. At all events, you were a beloved friend to us, and when
you died we mourned you very sorrowfully.

There were two charming little girls — babies almost — who
used to come to play in the Routledges' big drawing-room. It
was in his romps and games with them that I first saw Herbert's
wonderful love for little children ; his sympathy, his alertness,
his delightful fancies and frolics : all his life he was the light of
childish eyes.

Sunday dinner-parties took place at the houses of various
friends in our honour, and Herbert himself, who lived in rooms
in Maddox Street, gave feasts to celebrate our engagement.
Among those who 'came — some of his closest associates in those
days, I remember — were Edwin Godwin, Herman Vezin, Norman
Forbes, Justin Huntly McCarthy, A. K. Moore, Edmund Bell,
Hamilton Synge and George Alexander. Herbert loved my
singing, and I used to go through my repertoire every time there
was a piano — " The Creole Love-Song," " Echo," " Crepuscule,"
" Es war ein Traum." When I bewailed my lack of voice he
consoled me : " You act the songs so wonderfully — sing that
again ; " and he would murmur with me the refrain :

"Lean low, speak low,
Oh, Memory, Hope, Love of long ago ! "

One day he brought me my engagement ring. It had a
history. A little tiny boy, when his own mother was alive, he
was playing in the garden of their Kensington home, and he came
upon a bauble deep below the ground. He took it into the house,
to his mother, and said, " That is yours, because you have a
headache." (Herbert cherished the most devoted memory of
his mother ; but she died when her four children were scarcely
out of babyhood.) The stones in the ring turned out to be

6 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

diamonds. Had it dropped from the slender hand of some fine
lady in the days when Kensington Palace had its deer-park ?
Herbert's mother bequeathed it to whomsoever he in after years
should marry. So it was re-set and (incidentally) enlarged —
and he put it on my " engaged ' linger. Alas ! many years
later, in using on the stage a so-called dramatic gesture with
my left hand, the ring, which I always wore, sprang from my hand,
described an arc in the air, rolled — and was never found again.
Will it be unearthed, I wonder, in days to come, from the foun-
dations of the Haymarket Theatre ?

Herbert was acting in The Colonel at this time (the spring
of 1882), and he used to come and see me on his way to the
theatre. Once or twice Florence Theleur, who was engaged to
George Alexander, came to see me. I hope she will not mind
my saying that it was of her that I experienced my first pang of
jealousy ! Herbert brought me a little song which he had heard
sung by Miss St. John (an artist for whom he had an immense and
abiding admiration). The words were : " Oh ! my love, she is
a kitten, and my heart a ball of string." I tried very hard to do
justice to the refrain and music. He decided, rather sadly, that
they did not suit me. " Florence (Alexander) could sing that,"
he said, unconsciously delivering a terrible blow. I remember
another, a similar blow, that he dealt me. He arrived radiant,
with a parcel : " It is Myra Holme's birthday " (Myra Holme
was the heroine in The Colonel and married Arthur Pinero),
' and I have got her a scarf from Liberty's. Isn't it lovely ? '
" Too lovely," I answered, with ill-concealed acerbity ; and he
added insult to injury by using my writing-paper, which had a
large M upon it, to wreathe " Dear Myra " round my initial.
Darling Herbert, you hadn't the slightest idea how cross I was
for that one afternoon, or you would have been unhappy. There
never was so gentle and tender a heart : thoughtless sometimes,
but the moment you realized another's pain or difficulty, " con-
sideration like an angel came."

So the early spring passed, and we were glad as birds. My few
relations, who knew nothing of the theatre world, were only
mildly sympathetic over my engagement. Herbert went to
lunch with my eldest brother, Willie, to talk things over ; and a
dreadful verdict was pronounced — " How can Maud marry him ?

HERBERT AND I 7

His shirt-cuffs were frayed ! ' I might have replied, " Fielding's
were inked." My sister Emmie, a divine woman, whose judg-
ment and approbation were of real moment to me, wrote from
Italy to say she only wanted my happiness ; but had I, she
asked, considered what might be the torment and the fret of
marrying an actor, who must necessarily belong to the Public
and not to the Home ? Emmie did not realize that Herbert
was destined to lift her little sister out of the small things of
life into the great world of Art that he made his own — his own
and, because I belonged to him, ours.

In May, Herbert had lodgings at Hampstead Heath, which he
shared with George Alexander. Florence, " Alec's " fiancee,
tells me that she and I used to arrange with each other when
we should go to their cottage in Heath Street, a modest dwelling
now no longer to be found. I know I went there early one
Sunday morning in spring — that day, May 6th, when England
had heard of the Phoenix Park murders. I found Herbert in the
little garden of his lodgings, reading The Observer ; and I
remember his wild indignation and horrified eloquence, and his
firing me to feel that the whole world was disgraced for ever
and ever.

Soon after this there came the little rift that all but made
our music mute. Some kind and dear friends of mine, to whom
I owed great gratitude from childhood, who knew little of the
world, and nothing of a world such as Herbert's, came between
us with the usual arguments — " Wait until you know one
another " — " Try a long sea- voyage " — " Time will show." I was
weak and easily influenced, and I thought it my duty to break
off our engagement. " And the letter that brought me back
my ring," caused Herbert the deepest resentment and sorrow.
I need not dwell upon my own despair. We bore our separation
for a week or two : he with fierce impatience and a raging and
never-conquered resentment against my intervening friends
(" a little less than kin and less than kind," he called them)
which used to reach me in the bitter blots and savage dashes
of many a beseeching note. If I revelled a little in my misery
and gloried in his grief, it must be forgiven to one unused to
adoration and unaccustomed to power. I soon capitulated.

8 HERBERT BEEKBOHM TREE

Early one Sunday morning in June, or at the end of May, a letter
arrived from Hampstead by hansom, and my answer was to get
into the cab and go to him. Oh ! the divine morning — the butter-
cups, the sunshine, the May ! (This is more than thirty years
ago, when as yet there were Hampstead fields ablaze with butter-
cups.) Everything was happy after that : my work at Queen's
College — his at the theatre — and daily meetings of incomparable
and unimpaired delight.

In July there came a sudden summons for me and my sister
Harrie to go to Aix-les-Bains, where my eldest sister lay seriously
ill. That ended our wonderful summer, which I can only
remember as a sea of gold — Herbert and I wading through it
hand-in-hand. Sadly we said good-bye to each other and to
those sweet days. But our separation did not last long. One
morning in Aix, instead of the post bringing me a letter from him,
a little scrawled note reached me — I know it by heart : " Am here.
Have already bathed in Sulphur. When can I see you ? — H."

Gladness and astonishment were drowned in dismay, for all
my life I had been in awe of my brilliant sister, and I dreaded her
disapproval of my " young man ' who had followed me to
France. I hate to remember my dear Herbert's disappointment
that I met his eager greeting with coldness and scolding
words. His love was bounteous, and his soul sincere — he could
not understand my complex questionings. In the afternoon I
gathered together sufficient courage to tell my sister that my
lover had arrived. How could I have so misjudged that wisest
and most understanding of women ? The moment they met they
were close friends — their spirits rushed together. Their worlds
were wide apart, but their minds had everything in common,
and Herbert spent many hours by her bed, hours that lightened
the dreariness of her days of pain. He stayed two weeks — two
wonderful weeks. As we wandered in the woods there was
always the sound of rushing streams — a sweet accompaniment
to our happy talk and laughter and to the scraps of poetry that
bubbled from our lips.

" All along the valley, where thy waters flow,

I walked with one I loved two-and-thirty years ago " —

so used I to quote with him — alas ! alas !

fl^li

MAUD TREE

IN 1882.

From a pencil drawing by the Duchess of Rutland.

HERBERT AND I 9

Herbert's holiday came to an end, and with it those halcyon
days. He returned to work : I stayed on while my poor sister's
hopeless illness dragged on its sorrowful course. In September
we brought her to London, and the moment Herbert met me he
told me that the fashion, the hour and the place of our wedding
were fixed — only the actual day remained for my decision. I
chose my sister Emmie's birthday — " then I'm certain not to
forget it " — and the sixteenth of September it was.

Fate had arranged it after the hearts of both of us. Herbert's
people had a house in Kent for the summer, a sweet house — I sup-
pose it was the Vicarage — in whose garden there suddenly hap-
pened a church — a lovely little old church, which seemed to have
been planted there on purpose for Herbert and Maud's wedding.
I went to stay with his people the day before, and Herbert
arrived on the day itself. He was disappointed, I remember
to my sorrow, that I was too engrossed in wreathing and adorn-
ing to talk quietly to him about the new life we were entering
upon together. Even when we did meet, I was full of wayward-
ness and frivolity — utterly disinclined to think or talk seriously
over the present or the future. The contrast of our moods that
marriage morning has often recurred to me as laying bare the
lightness of my temperament and the unguessed, ungauged
depths of his. I remember how touching and simple was the
Service ; and I remember that as I listened to the dear voice
calling me his wife there crept into my heart a new kind of
love — a protecting love — the passionate longing to guard from
harm that one feels towards a little child.

There followed a feast, at which bride and bridegroom were
enthroned in huge chairs that seemed made entirely of flowers ;
these had been woven and fashioned and decked by the loving
hands of Herbert's little sisters, Agnes and Dora. We were
surrounded with tenderness and kindness and love and rejoicing,
and in our own two hearts there was the fullness of joy.

Our first home was in delightful rooms in Old Burlington
Street, and one of our first visitors was Edmund Routledge,
who entered, bringing a large silver salver — a present from the
Philothespian Amateur Actors. I did not attempt any house-
keeping, but I did set up a system by which every penny that

10 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

we spent should be written down, considered, added up and
balanced. A very expensive book was bought for this purpose,
and I have it to this day — with exactly three weeks' accounts
elaborately entered. By it I learn that Herbert entrusted to me
every week the whole of his salary (twenty pounds, as a matter
of fact), and I seem to have spent a great deal in nuts and hand-
kerchiefs (for him), and to have doled out to him each day little
sums as pocket-money— sums varying from ten shillings to
eighteenpence ; while sometimes there are extravagances to
record, such as " tickets to Brighton," and daily and hourly
hansoms, bearing witness to Herbert's inveterate driving habit.
He was acting in a farcical comedy at the Criterion Theatre, and,
except that he loved reading Shakespeare/ 1 cannot recall that
he had any great ambitions or plans for his career. He was
boyish and full of fun and laughter — eager, though a little shy —
loving life and people.

It was in the autumn of 1882 that I first met Julius, Her-
bert's younger brother (Max, their half-brother, was then a little
boy of ten). Julius was a brilliant creature, exquisite and
elusive : a poet and a dreamer. His poetry was of the soul ;
his dreams, alas ! were of the earth. He was a potential mil-
lionaire, and from time to time, one would have said, an actual
one. But, over and over again, some bright El Dorado would
fade before his vision. Fortunes came quickly, and as quickly
were engulfed in new and more glittering enterprises. Through-
out his eager, hunted life triumph and disaster followed one
another in quick succession ; but I never saw him — -even when
misfortunes were huddling on his back — otherwise than calm,
perfectly accoutred and equipped, fastidious, fantastic, fas-
cinating and debonair. When I first knew him he was either
engaged to that graceful and gracious being, Mrs. Younghusband,
or they were just married. He brought her, Evelyn, to see us
at Old Burlington Street. She had (has to this day) great beauty,
charm and distinction, a lovely way of speaking, lovely manners,
a gentle and rare disposition. After their marriage, they lived
in great splendour at Almond's Hotel, and I remember dinner-
parties where not the decoration but the tablecloth itself was
fashioned of Parma violets, and where food and wine were of
the nature of a Sybarite's dream. After such Lucullus' feasts,

HERBERT AND I 11

we would sometimes repair to our rooms, where Julius would
make me sing " Crepuscule," and where he also would sing,
read us his poems, or tell us stories of his travels. His was
an enchanting personality, and Herbert's pride and joy in
him were immense. In their stern and cruel school-days
Herbert had been the stronger of the two, the most able to
J endure ; therefore his had been the task to temper hardships
to his little brother ; and who would accomplish this task so
tenderly or with such love and understanding as Herbert ?
Both brothers, while remembering with delight the beauty of
the Thuringian land in spring and summer, recalled with shud-
dering dislike the iron system of their German school.

While we were in our first home there came, close upon our
own, another wedding — that of the beautiful and radiant Violet
Lindsay to Mr. Henry Manners. My sister Emmie had been for
the preceding five years the guide, philosopher and friend of this
adorable and gifted girl. Thus when I was hardly more than a
child had I come to know her, and a close friendship has existed
ever since between her and hers and between us and ours.
Henry Manners, then private secretary to Lord Salisbury, was
one of the most remarkably handsome and well-favoured of
men, and I recall the amazing spectacle of those two peerless
creatures as they stood side by side at the altar — with Violet's
splendid father, Colonel Charles Lindsay, that preux chevalier,
sans peur et sans reproche, on one side, and on the other Henry's
father, the great Lord John Manners, of Victorian history.
Violet's beauty was the theme of contemporary painters : Watts,
Millais, Burne- Jones and Poynter, all delighted to immortalize it.
As winter advanced, my health was not good, and Herbert
indulged the restlessness that possessed me by taking me from
place to place, in the hope that my half-imaginary malaise might
be allayed. We left Old Burlington Street to sojourn at various
hotels, each one less sympathetic to our souls than the last.
But in the end, we found — and actually stayed in (except for a
few weeks of financial crisis) for more than a year — a charm-
ing little house, 4, Wilton Street. There, with two servants,
Leah and Mrs. Pellatt, I set up housekeeping — and once more
the expensive note-book has the tale to tell of three weeks'
thrift.

12 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

Herbert's birthday was on December 17th. I try in vain
to remember what we did to celebrate it. It is quite certain to
have been observed as a feast-day, for that was always so ; and
my birthday gift is sure to have taken the form of something
that / longed to possess and so presented to him. Oh, and I
suddenly remember what it was ! I gave him the reproduction
of that wax Head of a Woman, attributed to Raphael, in the
Museum at Lille. This treasure, outliving a few cracks and one
tragic cleaning at the hands of an " Obliger," has remained the
head (and front) of our Lares to this day.

Hardly had we settled in Wilton Street than I broke down
under a real illness — serious perhaps for a few hours. How can
I describe Herbert's wonderful care and devotion, his flood of
grief over the slightest weakness and pain, his tears of self-
reproach lest he should have been lacking in love ? He, who
from the first had never ceased to lavish love and tenderness !

Early in the New Year came my sister Emmie's death.
Herbert dreaded the blow for me, for I was not yet strong ; but
I was so hedged in by his consideration and his efforts to distract
my mind from grieving that the sorrow touched me but lightly.
On the other hand, my little sister Harrie, nearest to Emmie, and
inseparable from her in their girlhood, was utterly weighed down
with the grief of her going. She came to stay with us for a night
or two, and Herbert's tenderness and thoughtfulness for her
in her unspeakable anguish laid the foundations of her huge,
unchanging love for him — the passionate, adoring admiration
and devotion of a heart that Herbert recognized to be the
simplest, most tender, most pitiful in the world.

The following is a letter which he wrote to her during our
engagement as a " Collins " after leaving Aix-les-Bains.

" Kent,

" The 24>ul August.
" (My dear Rakrie)

' if I may so turm you. I trust i am not acting
derogittary to the ettiquette of the walk of Life to wich we have
respectually been called by ' one who knows ' in so adressing
you previusly to recevin such incurrieregiment from you so to
do. I am quite cognizant of the fact that wenn a gentleman

HERBERT AND I 13

meet a lady friend in a street it is her not him as is deputyd to
make the furst reckonisement that it is agreable he should raze
his at her to. But I trust simular cerrymoneyall is not Here
desirubbell though nun the lest Respeck is intended in so doin
your near and Dere relutif having keptcompny with him whoo,
now, adress you ? How are yer 'Rarrie old pal parding for what
I truss you will not reggard as fumilliarity (but mear relashun-
ship though not blood) parding the menshunning off suche verb
(thou not on riggle). Kent is inn the country and is a verry
rurrial spot ; wich is siroundit by ills one on side hence pres-
sumable the addage Surry ills. This day the whether is
rainin(g) wich is bad for the bluming cropps. This is not my
mark but uninttensual accident. And now avin finnishe the
pagge I will artst youre per misshun to bid fair well to i whosse
remembrance will never fade ass long as Brittins never will bee
slaves and (this mackine arry is too him) ass Hamlick expostle-
thwaited, evenn mad turn over youre lawfull brother (ass his
too bee).

" D.V. has the sayin goes. " Bill.

" Pleese remember mee to my fine nancy as furreneers turm it."

One day, soon after Emmie's death, Herbert arrived home,
bringing with him Hamilton Aide — that gifted dilettante of a
poet, musician, writer of novels and playwright ; that virtuoso
of a water-colour painter ; that last word on distinguished and
cultivated manners, on lovable and high-minded disposition.
Herbert knew him already, but he and I had never met. Mr.
Aide told me afterwards that my little black dress and wan face
made instant appeal to him, and that, as I rose to greet him, his
affection for us and his interest in us began and never changed.
So was initiated a vivid friendship that ended only with that
dear comrade's death.

He had, when we first knew him, beautiful rooms in a long,
low house called Garden Mansion (since demolished) in Queen
Anne's Gate — stately rooms leading from one to another, such
as one sees in Italy, and furnished with dim and costly things.
We were often at his house, where all the interesting people of
the day were to be met — Kings, Princes, Governors and (well-
behaved) Bohemians.

^3f

(fat, 4LcCcCouat42; %&■

^flLtb to riot <*?% en*

Facsimile of part of the letter printed on pp. 12-13.

-4aC>i4c*+* ^t

0*4

tfi^Ct

$4ftL

16 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

To know Mr. Aide was to know his cousin, Mrs. Tennant, and
her two beautiful daughters — one of whom married the great
H. M. Stanley ; the other, Frederick Myers. Mrs. Tennant,
kind, hospitable, cultivated, also gave parties, though quite of
a different order, at her big house in Richmond Terrace. Those
were the days — now of course obsolete ! — when certain hostesses
would have an amiable weakness for lions and would love the
roar of the King of Beasts to reverberate through their rooms.
Hamilton Aide looked rather for the heart than for the mane ;
whence it came that he was sought after and beloved by many
a great one of the earth.

It was through him that we knew the Cecil Clays ; and,
indirectly, it was through him and them that I ever " went on
the stage." Cecil Clay had married that delightful embodiment
of mirth, Rosina Vokes, the youngest and the greatest jewel of
the celebrated Vokes family. The Clays held open house for
lunch on Sundays, and over and over again Herbert and
I found ourselves at their hospitable board in Park Street.
Rosie Clay, having left the stage, occasionally acted in amateur
performances, and very soon I was enmeshed in a network of
these.

New Men and Old Acres was a favourite play, and Rosie Clay
and I, Herbert Gardner, Augustus Spalding and Captain Gooch
used to appear in them to our own and an indulgent audience's
intense satisfaction. The Shelley Theatre — a charming little
Temple of Thespis which Sir John Shelley added to their house
in Chelsea — was often the scene of our efforts. Lady Shelley
was a delightful woman, devoted to Herbert, but — as it seemed
to me — only mildly interested in Sir Percy's theatrical dabblings.
They were both sweet friends to us.

Scarcely was winter past when an awful, an utterly unex-
pected calamity overtook us : Herbert had no engagement !
The ea^, delightful twenty pounds poured automatically into
my lap on Friday and spent as soon as poured, suddenly ceased.
This was an appalling state of things : we were as Babes in the
Wood — but where were the robins ? Where were even the leaves
to cover us ?

Two good fairies did actually alight to save us from starva-

HERBERT AND I 17

tion, in the form of Messrs. Curtis and Henson, who let our " desir-
able " little house for us at a large rent, and thus enabled us,
though but as wanderers upon the face of the earth, to subsist.
My third sister, Bertha, lent us rooms at first — not very smart
ones, for she was as poor as we ; and afterwards we took horrible
lodgings in a forlorn house, down a forlorn turning in that forlorn
neighbourhood where Haverstock Hill pretends to be Hampstead
Heath. Here we sounded the depths and shoals of discomfort
and " disgruntlement," though to our little world, where we
were more and more in demand, we had to appear white-tied
and be-velveted as usual. How I used to dread the gentle-
voiced, courteous overtures of great ladies demanding : " May
I come and see you ? ' It must have been a time of terrible
discomfort and disturbance for my dear, gentle Herbert. But
he never uttered one word of complaint. Indeed, in all our
years of varying fortunes, eddying luxuries and movable feasts,
I can remember nothing but cheerful and patient acceptance of
the inevitable. He did not know the art of grumbling, though
no one had a keener sense of what is sweet and good in life :
no one had a more delicate, a more fastidious taste. He depre-
cated poverty because he thought it stifling to ambition.
' Starvation causes stagnation," I heard him say in after years.
On the other hand, he loathed the kind of self-indulgence which
I once heard him warn a beautiful woman would lead to " the
Carlton Chin."

So daily we walked light-heartedly down the Haverstock
Hill of life together, singing, laughing, and buying clean collars
and snowdrops on the way. Of course, we got into debt, and
it hung long and heavily over our heads. Herbert's sister
Constance, his own and his well-beloved sister Constance, used
to lend me money at times when Marshall and Snelgrove were
more than usually " surprised " (they would have been astonished,
indeed, had they known the real state of our exchequer). I used
to keep an elaborate account of my debts to Constance, and
gradually, though it took years, I repaid her to my own satisfac-
tion, though perhaps not altogether to hers. I daresay she
thought a five-pound note would have been more satisfactory
than a Sheraton chair worth five pounds ; yet I remember
perfectly well that I did pay some of that loving loan not in

18 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

money but in chairs — doubtless to prevent its becoming a
standing debt.

Herbert loved Constance very dearly : she had been all-in-
all to him when his mother died, and he looked up to her with
the utmost devotion and reverence. He wrote to me once of
her : ' She has indeed a pure and beautiful soul : she is one
of those who will see God."

Since Herbert was not acting, it must have been now that we
were able to go to theatres together ; and we saw Mary Ander-
son, the beautiful girl-actress, who had taken the town by
storm, in Tngomar, Pygmalion and Galatea and Romeo and Juliet
— lovely experience which we never forgot. There were amateur
theatricals, too, at Lady Freake's house in which we both took
part — but an extract from the Athenceum will show their nature :

" A classical representation, entitled The Tale of Troy,
will be given on the afternoon of May 29th and evening of
May 30th, for the benefit of the Building Fund which is
being raised to provide better accommodation for the
King's College Lectures for Ladies at Kensington. The
performance has been organized by Professor G. C. Warr,
of King's College, in conjunction with Professor C. T.
Newton, C.B., of the British Museum. It will consist of
some of the most interesting portions of Homer's Iliad and
Odyssey, arranged in a dramatic form and combined with
various tableaux in such a way as to give a connected view
of the two poems. . . . Mr. Samuel Brandram will play
Priam and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree Andromache. The first
performance will be given in English ; the second in the
original Greek."

I remember nothing except that sometimes I was Andro-
mache in Greek, and sometimes Helen of Troy (save the mark !)
in English — or vice versa — and that beautiful Miss Sellars was
Helen of Troy when I was not, and that Herbert Paul was Hector
when Herbert was not Hector — and that we all loved to be the
willing slaves of all the great artists of the day : Leighton and
Watts and Millais, Tadema, Poynter and Bume-Jones ; to such
as these one was accustomed to say, " What about my \trbtv ? '

HERBERT AND I 19

and " Please drape the folds of my 1/aaTiov." It was now for
the first time that I came to know Mr. Godwin, the famous
architect. Though he had been Herbert's friend long before this,
and Herbert had an immense admiration and affection for him,
I had a stupid, narrow-minded kind of jealousy about him. I
wanted Herbert in a glass case, and I used to think that Mr.
Godwin tried to get him out. So he did — thank Heaven ! But
I regret immeasurably all that I missed in hiding my hands
behind my back, when I should have stretched them out with
affection and gratitude to a great artist.

Our penury and exile did not last for ever, and by the end
of June we were once more back in Wilton Street. All I re-
member of the waning summer is a performance of A Midsummer
Night's Dream, which was given by the Laboucheres in their
garden at Pope's Villa, Twickenham. I remember vividly
our getting into a large two-horsed carriage, and driving, in
sweet weather, to lunch with the distinguished parents of
Edward Bell, painter and poet — a beloved boyhood's friend of
Herbert. I remember their house, half-way between Richmond
and Twickenham ; I remember almost the food we ate, the wine
we drank. Then I remember, dimly, Herbert's enchantment at
the performance, in the sweet June twilight that deepened into
blue night, of A Midsummer Night's Dream. I remember his
ecstasies and my torpor. I remember Rose Norreys as Puck,
swinging sweetly in the branches ; then an interminable drive
home, with our carriage full of joyous, hilarious enthusiasts ;
then the mists and darkness of a serious illness which laid me
low that very night, and from which it was thought I could not
recover — oh, cruel, anxious ending to Herbert's happy summer
day ! His devotion ; his tears ; his reiterated cries, " I have not
loved you enough ! " — these should be too sacred to let out of
one's heart ; but I cannot bear that they should be utterly
unrecorded.

When I was well enough, we went to Freshwater, on a visit
to Lady Kenmare, whose delicious cottage, The Briary, was
our model for many years of all a country home should be.
Herbert was obliged to leave me there, for he was rehearsing a
new play, and not all the delights of The Briary or of Faringford

20 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

(where I stayed with Mrs. Lionel Tennyson) could reconcile me
to my first separation from him. A far-off glimpse of the Poet
Laureate, seated under a cedar-tree, and shrouded in an over-
whelming sombrero, hardly entitles me to boast in later life that
I knew Alfred Tennyson well — yet I have seen it boasted for me.

" And did you once see Shelley plain,
And did he speak to you ? "

The answer is a decided negative.

September found Herbert acting at the Globe Theatre in
The Glass of Fashion, with Miss Lingard as the heroine, and
Lottie Venne as the ingenue. I remember little of the play,
beyond his easy, brilliant Prince Borowski, his brown plush
smoking-jacket, which set a fashion for stage adventurers, and
Lottie Venne's intonation in " Ready, Prince ? " when the
jealous husband happily discovered her, instead of his wife,
in the rooms of the wicked Polish potentate. The play had a
long run, and I often saw it ; indeed, to my astonishment, I
find, from an old press-cutting, that I actually appeared in a
little curtain-raiser to it — a play called Elsie — though why Elsie,
whence Elsie, with whom Elsie, I have not the slightest recol-
lection. I imagine it was a sort of preparation to my first real
professional engagement, which was at the Court Theatre in
October.

Herbert always adhered to his preference for my not going
on the stage. " There is so much else you could do," was ever
his too-flattering comment. Fate and John Clayton (those two
great teachers and great actors) willed it otherwise. I appeared
as Hester Gould in The Millionaire ; and by dint of donning
scarlet hair and of modelling my demeanour on that of Wilkie
Collins's immortal adventuress, Miss Gwilt, I made a successful
start. I remember the next morning, when a somewhat flaming
article appeared about my performance, Herbert rushed in to
me, shaving-brush in hand, his razor dangerously near his throat,
crying, " I hope it doesn't mean that you will be more famous
than I ! — because " — with reproachful gravity — " I couldn't have
that."

Nothing is more characteristic, both of his naivete' and of hi?
humility than this. On much more important occasions, and

HERBERT TREE

ABOUT 1882.

HERBERT AND I 21

in instances where there might be possible ground for his uneasi-
ness, he would speak his thought like a disquieted child ; thoughts
that come to every man, but to which only the child-like in heart
give utterance.

We must have had a busy, happy autumn ; success, heaps
of friends, money (I think my salary was ten pounds a week,
which I spent entirely on hansoms and flowers), little suppers
in the " small house in Wilton Street," parties, music, flights
by late Saturday night trains to the country or the sea.

Early in 1884 our tenancy of Wilton Street came to an end,
and we took a delicious little house in Cheyne Walk. Nothing
in the world could be so sweet as Chelsea in earliest spring — the
almond-blossom, the brimming river, the seagulls, the lovely
lights of morning and evening skies. We revelled in it and in
our dear little panelled house.

By this time we had acquired a dog — a beautiful collie, the
gift of Professor George Warr, who christened him Argus, in
remembrance of our Homeric feats in Lady Freake's tableaux.
Argus was a perfect creature, who shared our walks, our hansoms,
our restaurant meals, our excursions, and who was only just
so much of a sweet, unconscious bore as an adored dog inevitably
is. We used to make up odes to him — " Odes to Odour and
Others " — which we set to music ; the dance-music tunes of the
day. All our dogs have had songs, from Argus to Bruce, the
retriever who is still living.

In March was produced The Private Secretary at the Globe
Theatre, Herbert wandering into his part and inventing it as he
rehearsed. Every catchword, every action, every " bit of busi-
ness " is Herbert's own — indeed, if ever character was created
and made immortal by actor rather than author, the Rev. Robert
Spalding by Herbert was such.

On the first night of the play I was in the wings, waiting
with him till he went on the stage. ' Quick, quick ! I must
have a bit of blue ribbon in my button-hole," he cried, with
sudden inspiration. No one had anything of the desired colour,
so I quickly tore something white from my sleeve, rushed to the
painting room, and returned with the badge, duly blued, just
in time for his entrance. Of course, that blue ribbon became

22 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

historic. The play was a failure at first, and I used to sit in the
stalls nearly every night to help to conceal their emptiness. I
remember the last time that the " free list " was thus open to
me (about the fourteenth night of the play). The scanty
audience rocked with laughter throughout, but we all became
hysterical when Mrs. Leigh Murray, having accidentally shed an
underskirt, which she blushingly threw away, in sight of the
audience, Herbert put his head in at the door through which
it had been hurled (it was his entrance in the second act), saying
in modest trepidation, " I beg your pardon, but I thought I met
a Petticoat on the stairs."

Mr. Hill and Mr. Hawtrey, who were on the stage, collapsed
at this unrehearsed witticism — and I thought the audience would
never cease their laughter. From that night onwards The
Private Secretary was the talk of the town, and there were no
more vacant stalls for me.

By consenting to remain in the cast, Herbert could have
had riches and fame of a sort then and there. But his ambition
was made of sterner stuff. He resigned the part and his " gags '
to Mr. Penley, a brilliant successor, and himself repaired to the
Prince of Wales's Theatre to " create ' Macari in Called Back.
This was a triumph — the first of his great parts.

The play ran on and on, while I kept house in Cheyne Walk,
drove or walked with him to the theatre every morning, filled
in my day till his return to five-o'clock dinner, sometimes drove
with him back to his work, waited — often out-of-doors — for his
return. There was not a sweeter place on earth, as summer
grew, than Cheyne Walk. He loved then, as always, to bring
someone home to supper with him — Godwin, A. K. Moore, Brook-
iit Id, Edward Bell, Hamilton Synge, Comyns Carr, Stuart Ogilvie
and Hugh Conway. These months were a time of marvellous
peace and joy to me — and I think he was as happy as I. His
success as Macari, following upon The Private Secretary, was
enormous; the seeds of his future greatness were showing
their blades. I think this was before the Chelsea of Chelsea
Art, but the Oscar Wildes lived in Tite Street, and we often
saw then: Mr. Haweis gave parties at Rossetti's old house,
and Mr. Godwin lived in Westminster, not too far away. These

re the early days of Frank Schuster's lovely parties ; Hamilton

HERBERT AND I 23

Aide was our beloved friend ; W. S. Gilbert we were just be-
ginning to know ; I cannot remember anything but happiness,
anticipation and heaps of friends. Money always worried us
a little ; but only because it concerned us too lightly — sufficient
unto the day was the sovereign thereof.

In July came Viola : a never-ending joy. Herbert chose
her name — hovering between Viola and Rosalind — and decided
at once that she should " grow up laughing." Ramsgate — a
lodging in the Royal Crescent — was chosen for me and the baby
in August, while Herbert was still acting in Called Bach. I chafed
under our second separation, and soon we were back at Cheyne
Walk ; and I can remember little beyond the gradual coming of
Viola's teeth.

When Called Bach had come to an end, Herbert was rehearsing
The School for Scandal with Mrs. Langtry. For some inexplicable
reason Joseph Surface did not suit Herbert, though one would
have imagined him ideal in the part. He was hampered, I
believe, by his intense admiration of John Clayton's Joseph — a
most perfect performance ; polished, unctuous, elegant, per-
suasive, stealthy — his very fatness disarmed suspicion. Her-
bert's personality was slim ; and though no one could be so fat
as he in manner, gesture and speech when made up to be fat
{vide Demetrius in The Red Lamp, Falstaff, Beethoven, Isidore
Izard in Business is Business), he could not convey unctuousness
while retaining his slim personality ; or, at all events, he did not
in Joseph Surface. He should have approached the character
from another point of view — but, as I have said, the perfection
of John Clayton's Joseph spoilt his vision. It was the same,
to my mind, when Herbert came to play Iago, which one would
have imagined written for him. Here, again, he had seen Maurel
in Verdi's Otello — easy, jocose, a braggadocio, instinct with the
bouncing lissomeness of embonpoint — again a perfect performance,
whose very perfection led Herbert astray. He tried to make
Iago into a Ralph Royster Doyster instead of into a Shakespearean
Macari. Had he but imitated himself instead of Maurel he would
have been the greatest of all Iagos. Since I am allowing myself
to criticize his acting, I will allude to another part wherein he
seemed to me to fail. This was Benedick (not because he had
seen an ideal Benedick, for we never did see one). Had he but

24 HERBERT BEERBOIIM TREE

made of Benedick an Italian Duke of Guisebury he would have
been without rival.

If his Joseph Surface was disappointing, how marvellous was
his next part with Mrs. Langtry ! His impersonation of Sir
Woodbine Grafton, the dyspeptic old Anglo- Indian in Peril,
became a feature of the play, and set all London laughing.

By this time we had left Cheyne Walk, and we flitted from a
pleasant but probably too expensive house in North Audley
Street to a flat over the Prince of Wales's Theatre, leased to us
by Edgar Bruce. I liked it because of the colour of its walls and
its carpets ; Herbert, because the large sitting-room was round
and full of windows. But it was no place for Argus the dog and
Viola the baby, and in tropical June weather we once more
repaired to Ramsgate, Herbert having a brief holiday. Un-
luckily for us, we fell in, while there, with our friend, Mr. Kyrle
Bellew, who learnt that we were leaving for London on the
morrow. ' Then you and Herbert must come in my yacht ! '
he cried, with the boisterous bonhomie that was characteristic of
him. " Do we like yachting ? " we asked doubtfully. But he,
radiant in white suit de rigueur, would take no denial, and
towards evening, just when June — as too frequently happens —
had suddenly turned to November, we were rowed in a small
boat to the still smaller yacht, and were promised all the delights
of a summer night's journey and the glories of dawn at our
London landing. Alas ! a thing called a ground-swell kept us
prisoners outside Ramsgate harbour, sick, cold, starving, perish-
ing of every evil that a rocking though stationary boat is heir
to, with bales of cord for pillows and drizzling rain for coverlets.
The long night, with Ramsgate's mocking lights dancing before
our bloodshot eyes — what never-to-be-forgotten misery of dis-
comfort ! Kyrle Bellew was a charming friend ; we spent some
of our happiest hours with him — but the yachting hours must
not count.

Back in London, and still at Prince's Chambers we seem to
have been blithe and gay, but I remember little. I remember
Lady Elcho (now Lady Wemyss) giving a Sunday dinner for us,
because there, for the first time, we met Margot and Laura

HERBERT AND I 25

Tennant and Alfred Lyttelton, to whom Laura was engaged.
' You must come to my wedding," she said impulsively — radiant,
joyous creature that she was, making intimate friends of us on
the spot.

Herbert, with his quick eye for contrast and dramatic effect,
always recalled the grand figure of Gladstone at this wedding.
During the ceremony, he stood wrapt ; his leonine head and
large, lucent eyes lifted towards the sunshine that filtered
through the stained-glass windows. Then he joined, with all
the anxious correctness of a young chorister, in the hymns ;
but ever he kept his calm gaze fixed far away aloft. Meanwhile,
as he sang, he stroked the golden hair of a child who stood in
front of him. This was at a time when half England was
clamouring that he should be hanged on the nearest tree.

Where was our holiday that summer ? Did Herbert have a
holiday ? We must have taken Viola somewhere — Viola, who is
a year old by now. I cannot remember — but in the autumn the
Gilberts took me with them to Egypt, and Herbert was left at
home (lodgings in Wilton Street this time) to look after our
little girl. I was away for six weeks, while he was acting at the
Haymarket in Dark Days, a second play by Hugh Conway, but not
so good a play as Called Back ; nor was Sir Meryvn Ferrand,
though fascinating and exquisite, so sensational and unforgettable
a success as Macari.

Early in 1886 we had no London home, but took a little
house near Ascot — a dreary spot in March, in the tardiest of
springs. Herbert had no engagement, and used to go up and
down to London to watch events. Once, on his return to
our not very luxurious cottage, I remember one of the very,
very rare occasions — I think it was the only occasion — when I
saw him utterly cast down, disappointed and discouraged. As
a rule, misfortune seemed to elate him and give him new energy.
It was when the Haymarket management had decided to put
on Jim the Penman. Herbert, having enacted various villains,
all with conspicuous success, in three successive plays at this
theatre, naturally expected to be cast for Jim — a part which
seemed written for him, and which he would have acted to per-
fection. But that day he had heard that Arthur Dacre was to

36 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

be Jim, and that to Herbert was allotted a wretched part, which
seemed to him unworthy and beneath his dignity to accept.
Yet, for our sakes, he must submit — and something like despair
sat upon him. " My soul is dark," he said. I did my best
to pet and cheer him — as though drying the tears of a child, so
like a child was he in grief or joy. And I was right to bid him
take courage, for when the play was produced, lo ! the part of
Jim the Penman mattered little, though the play had a great
success and a long run ; but Herbert's part, the small part of
the German Baron Harzfeld, became the outstanding feature of
the play, and people remember it to this day.

Fortune smiled again. Now at last we take a real house,
rather a nice house, smart and new, in Rosary Gardens ; and I
begin the first of my adventures in furnishing — a form of idle
activity that more and more obsessed me as the years rolled on.
Herbert thought my taste (crude enough in reality) perfect, and
my judgment infallible. He also thought I had the gift of hospi-
tality, a quality he adored ; and, indeed, from the days of
Rosary Gardens and its presiding kitchen genius, Mrs. Jones,
we always had an excellent cook. We were now close friends of
the W. S. Gilberts, who found our house for us, and made it
easy for us to acquire it. It was at this time that Viola gave
utterance to her first memorable remark. She refused the
friendly overtures of Mr. Gilbert, nicknamed Gillie. Herbert
said reprovingly, " Oh ! kiss Gillie, darling — Daddy loves
Gillie." " Then Daddy kiss Gillie," she answered. This seemed
to him the most miraculous philosophy ever uttered by a child
of two. I think it was from that day that Herbert's idolizing
love and admiration for his daughter began.

In the summer of 1886 we combined work and play by
installing ourselves and Viola in a lodging among the pinewoods
of Bournemouth and acting in Othello, The Merchant of Venice
and The School for Scandal with the Frank Bensons. This was
a happy little adventure, especially for me, who plunged into
the parts of Portia and Lady Teazle " with all the airy com-
placency of ineptitude," as a critic once wrote of me, though
happily not on the Bournemouth occasion.

Frank Benson was already making himself felt as a lover

HERBERT AND I JT

of Shakespeare and as a Shakespearean producer ; though he
must, in 1886, have but lately left Oxford. Among Herbert's
treasures I find his letter inviting us to act with him :

" Dear Mr. Tree,

" I enclose book of Othello. How would week at
Bournemouth suit you for experiments ? Would Mrs. Tree
play Portia that week and Lady Teazle, you playing Joseph ?
Provincial business is very small, so I can't offer you much
remuneration, but I presume that is not so much your object
as an artistic experiment. How would half my profits suit
you, £10 guaranteed ? That seems to me a fair thing,
but we could discuss that on Tuesday. Could you see
me on Tuesday, any time after 1.30 ? We might run through
our dialogue together. The Bournemouth week begins
August 16th. My wife (I shall be married by that time)
could show Mrs. Tree some of the stock business of Lady
Teazle if she does not know it and cares to talk it over
with her.

" I have not heard from my friend Iago yet, but antici-
pate no objection on his part.

" Yours sincerely,

" Frank R. Benson.

" P.S. — I can make this off. definite. I shall want to
know about Bournemouth by Tuesday at latest. It is a nice
little theatre and a nice place, and I think it will be the best
place for it."

The spring of 1887 (we are still at Rosary Gardens ; I am
acting with the Hares and Kendals) witnesses an exciting
departure. Aided and abetted by Mr. Stuart Ogilvie, who
financed the venture, and by Mr. Comyns Carr, who was the
fidus Achates, Herbert shook himself free of the shackles of other
people's authority, and took a theatre of his own. Yes, he
actually became Lessee and Manager of the Comedy Theatre !
This was much more of an adventure in those days, when actor-
managers were rare ; later, of course, the world bristled with
them. And to us it was an amazing and delightful task — a
game, a gamble, a gambol ! The days of rehearsal were fraught

28 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

with excitement and joyous expectation, nor was there any
disappointment in store for us. To me was entrusted the care
of seeing that the extra ladies (such lovely extra ladies) should
be dressed in a manner befitting a ball at " The Princess Mora-
koff's Palace in St. Petersburg." A grave responsibility — but
I revelled in the carte blanche allowed me at Lewis and Allenby's.
The cast included Lady Monckton, Marion Terry, Rosina Filippi,
Beatrice Lamb ; Robert Pateman, Charles Sugden, Laurence
Cautley, Sant Matthews, Frederick Harrison, Charles Brookfield,
Edmund Maurice, etc., etc., etc. — and, last and first, Herbert,
as the head of the Secret Police. The play was produced
April 20th, 1887, with great success — a success that grew and
grew, so that Herbert and Comyns Carr used to hide in the Box
Office, rejoicing like happy children over the ever-increasing
demand for seats.

What was sport to them was death to our home life for the
time being. I remember terribly lonely hours at Rosary Gardens
while those Three Musketeers, Stuart Ogilvie, Comyns Carr and
Herbert, kept the Red Lamp burning between the Comedy
Theatre and the Garrick Club. My halcyon days, when I took
part and was allotted all the leading parts in Herbert's pro-
ductions, were yet to come. But days were half halcyon even
then, for I shared in the joyful excitement of the success, I was
happy in my engagement at the St. James's, and I was often
summoned by the Three to a Cafe Royal lunch — and there was
always the joy of fetching Herbert at his theatre after my theatre,
and of the coming home together.

The Red Lamp became the fashion, and Herbert's catchword
" I wonder ! " a colloquialism. The phrases of the play lent fun
to our daily life. We did not ask for the bell to be rung — we
cried, " One touch to the communicator, and oh ! how hideous
a ruin ! " Questions as to time were answered, "It is the
dawn, mad woman — it is the dawn ! ' We must sometimes
have astonished our own and other people's servants. ' Ay,
the dawn of blood ! " is no sort of answer to the meek question,
" Will you call in the morning, ma'am ? "

By the way, Herbert always professed an indescribable dread
and awe of butlers. " They make me feel apologetic," he said ;
and of one or two of his acquaintances he used to complain,

HERBERT AND I 29

" They frighten me, just as butlers frighten me." Yet all
servants adored him, and loved to serve him — his manner to
dependents, the happy mean between grand-seigneury and
simplicity, was perfect.

But for his salary as actor, I think Herbert was not enriched
by the success of The Red Lamp. A mysterious prophecy was
often whispered, but never, I think, fulfilled : " Next week we
shall touch profits."

Our life brimmed with laughter, for we were constantly in
the company of that King of Mirth, Comyns Carr, of W. S.
Gilbert (who could not speak without uttering a witticism),
F. C. Burnand, George Grossmith, Oscar Wilde, John Toole,
the Hares, the Kendals, the Bancrofts, the Peruginis — all the
joy of the London world. Herbert, steeped in humour himself,
not only adored it in others, but was the cause of it ; putting
light to the flame and keeping it alive with his reciprocity and
joyousness.

Lady Bancroft was one of these flames, and, with Herbert as
audience-in-chief, she used, at famous Sunday dinner-parties
in Berkeley Square, to keep the table in a roar. Can one ever
forget her story of finding a fierce soldier confabulating with her
cook in the kitchen ? Upon summary dismissal, the intruding
warrior ascended the area steps with terrifying dignity, fierce
protest and loud and awesome threats of vengeance by gun,
sword and War Office. As the gate closed against him, he
leaned over the railings and called, in a small, meek voice,
' Emerly, give me my 'at." She told this the same night that
George Grossmith kept us in shrieks by his account of two ladies
who met and made friends on the Margate boat. Tea and shrimps
called forth the best and the worst in them. For, having ascer-
tained one another's name and made many appointments to
meet, at parting : " Pardon me, Mrs. Smith, but your bonnet's
a one-side." " Favour for favour, Mrs. Jones, there's a smut
on your nose." They separated, deadly enemies.

It was at a brilliant party at the Burnands' that I gave
utterance to my notorious betise. In great jealousy I said to
my companion, " Oh, look ! Herbert is going in to supper with
such a lovely woman. I wish he had taken you in ! ' Luckily
my unlucky remark was made to one of the most beautiful women

80 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

in London — Mrs. John Hare ; but when it appeared in Punch,
I think du Maurier did not let me off so easily.

Delightful friends we had, and kept, though some of them,
alas ! are gone now. First and foremost, Hamilton Aid6 ;
through him, dear, adorable Mary Clarke — so brilliant, so wise,
so witty ! The gifted wife of Colonel Stanley Clarke, her con-
stant affection and friendship were of the proudest privileges
ever bestowed upon Herbert and me. He loved her, admired
her, and looked up to her as she deserved ; and her under-
standing and appreciation of him was as unbounded. A beloved
friend, whose loss to her world is ever to be deplored. Then
there were the Pineros, the Jeunes, the Charles Lawrences, the
Manners, the d'Oyly Cartes, Arthur Sullivan, the Boughtons,
the Tennants, the Lionel Tennysons, Frederick Locker, Whistler.
If it was a coterie, what a coterie ! Surely of many colours !

Our Summer holiday was our first at Cromer and its adjoining
" Poppyland." I remember that it was the Alexanders who
told us of its advantages ; therefore thither we repaired — with
much preamble and perambulator (I expect I went first, for such
arrangements were left to me until they broke down ; then, all
our life together, Herbert, once appealed to, could instantly
repair disasters). Cromer, in those days, a huge church, two
tiny streets and a sea ! At first the hotel — half cliff, half inn, with
many stages and no particular recommendations — then a lodging
search, which bequeathed us the landlady joke, " You'll get
a loverly view of the railway-station." The town having
failed us, we repaired to the ruined church, the broken, poppied
cliff, and one cottage, which constituted Overstrand. We took
the cottage, dreamed in the ruined church, drowsed on the cliffs.
Viola was an amazing child with waves and sand ; Herbert as
amazing a Poseidon. The sea seemed to belong to him and her.

CHAPTER II

When Herbert began his Great Adventure — the taking of the
Haymarket Theatre, in the autumn — he transferred the now
famous Red Lamp from the Comedy Theatre, and preceded it
by that lovely little play — sacred, I hope, to himself — The Ballad-
Monger. Here Herbert found a part, in Gringoire, exactly to
his taste, and exactly suited to his personality and his powers.
A dreamer, a reformer, a lover, a poet, a philosopher, a scorner
of oppression, a saviour of the people — here were all things that
were in his own nature ; and what passion, what tenderness,
what beauty, what nobility he projected into the character !

I consider that Gringoire was one of Herbert's finest parts,
and there can be no question that the whole evening's perform-
ance was among his greatest achievements, for to follow the sweet
starveling, the graceful, ragged poet, with his tender, wistful
pleading, or his ringing and passionate denunciation, by the
fat, sleek, cat-footed, slumberous, dangerous Demetrius was a
feat the very ease of which spelt genius.

To my astonishment, I was given the part of the Princess
in The Red Lamp, while Marion Terry retained her part as Olga,
and was Loyse in The Ballad- Monger. And what an unforgettable
Loyse — how sweet and perfect the play, with its haunting music !
Did Maude Valerie White compose anything more lovely and
compelling than " The Devout Lover " ? Had Ben Jonson
inspired Walter Pollock to the words ?

[By permission of Messrs. Ricordi 6- Co.

82 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

From the sublime of the Willett-built respectability of
South Kensington we migrated to the ridiculous of the " House
of the Seven Stables," as Herbert loved to recall my calling it.
This was the upper part of a house in New Cavendish Street,
whose lower part was the haunt of horses and carriages let out
for hire. As a dwelling, when one had grown accustomed to a
perpetual champ of bit and stamp of hoof, it was pleasant enough ;
and pleasant and eager were the days that we spent there. Indeed,
the three years at the Seven Stables were altogether happy — the
happiest, the most unclouded, perhaps, of all our married life.
We were at one in everything — in our work, in our leisure, in our
friends ; and there was Viola, an ever-growing joy. It was a
sweet time of mutual love and trust and the labour we delighted
in — there was no pain to physic. And what happened in those
three years ? Oh, mighty things ! There were laid the founda-
tions— nay, more : there began to rise the walls of Herbert's future
and greatness. When at last the run of The Red Lamp and The
Ballad-Monger came to an end, Partners, an adaptation by Robert
Buchanan of " Fromont Jeune et Risler Aine " (immortal book !)
was put on. Shall I record our first memorable quarrel ? Why
not, since this is called " Herbert and I " ? Spoilt by my un-
deserved uplifting to a leading part, I considered it my right to
claim all leading parts (alas ! we wives of actors, how many of us
fall not into this foolish mistake !). But Marion Terry was rightly
and naturally chosen by all concerned for the wife in Partners.
One night at supper (Herbert and I were alone) I put forward
my grievance. " Why Marion Terry ? Why not me ? ' Her-
bert answered, with the utmost gentleness and consideration,
that there could not be a question as to Marion's superior suit-
ability, personality and appearance ; and I accepted this rebuke
meekly enough. (I know she will not mind my confessing all
this.) But, unluckily, Herbert still went on to say : ; You see,
the part needs extraordinary sympathy " — and this gentle implica-
tion filled me with a sudden ungovernable rage. I am ashamed to
say what absurd form my fury took : suffice it that Herbert
got up from the table where we had been supping so happily,
and left the house without a word. Domestic Drama, how well
you know the situation ! The dismay — the doubting certainty
that he will come back — the long hours of heart-broken sobbing,

HERBERT AND I 33

huddled in a window where watch can be kept for the longed-for
return — the endless, remorseless moments until the almost
despaired-of scrape of the latchkey — the piteous appeal for
pardon ; — then, comfort, kindness, understanding, sweet recon-
ciliation ! " Oh, blessing on the falling-out that all the more
endears ! "

Partners should have been a success, it had all the necessary
elements, but nothing very important came of it, and, as was his
wont, Herbert quickly gathered himself together for his next
venture. This was Sydney Grundy's version, called The Pompa-
dour, of a French play, Narcisse ; and who but I was chosen for the
heroine ? But I must explain how this came to be ; for though I
had lovely clothes, and won a certain amount of praise, I was not
temperamentally suited to the part. Because of my unforeseen
success in the somewhat exacting part of the Princess in The
Red Lamp, I had been promised an extraordinarily important
role at a leading London theatre. I could not believe my senses ;
and it was just as well I could not, for, when the play came to
be cast, the joint authors would not hear of my being engaged ;
and an actress of established renown was chosen in my
place.

I was terribly disappointed and grieved — a state of things
which Herbert's divine heart could not allow. He dried my
tears, saying, " You shall be the Pompadour." The author was
nothing loath ; and that is how I came to have so wonderful a
chance — for no young actress ever had a greater. It was the
most ambitious production that Herbert had as yet undertaken —
and strenuous were the rehearsals, with that splendid and gifted
North-country man, Sydney Grundy, presiding. In the last
act, when Narcisse denounces the Pompadour, the " business "
arranged was that he was to fling me, from my agonized clinging
round his neck, down the steps of the market-cross. These
steps were elaborately and solidly built, and in vain I tried to
learn to be flung without hurting myself. " Act ! act ! '
Herbert used to cry in frenzy — " You can't be hurt if you will
only act ! ' This, however, I could not learn to do, and
Herbert had to content himself with flinging me from the
lowest step — a dreadful disappointment, and the cause, I

HERBERT BEERBOIIM TREE

believe he secretly thought, of the not too overwhelming
success of the play.

However, The Pompadour did have a certain measure of
favour — it ran for at least a hundred nights, and the beauty of
the production won golden opinions. What a pretty scene that
must have been — when Narcisse discovers in the Pompadour,
through her singing of a long-ago song, the peasant-girl whom
he had loved and lost ! The song, too, how lovely ! — the words
by Sydney Grundy ; the haunting music, with its spinning-wheel
accompaniment, by George Henschel.

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In the summer, while The Pompadour was still being played,
Captain Swift glided into being. This was the beginning of our
long friendship with its author, Mr. Haddon Chambers, a
delightful companion, whose merry, whimsical temperament was
absolutely after Herbert's own heart. Herbert produced the
play at a matinee in June, and it was an instant success ; though
I remember his rage and chagrin when the important critic of
an important paper began his article of otherwise glowing praise
with the exclamation, " That fatal last act ! How many a
play," etc., etc. We, Herbert, the author and I, determined

Photo by]

HERBERT TREE

ABOUT 1885.

[Bassano.

HERBERT AND I 85

it should not prove fatal in the long run — and a long run, indeed,
was in store. As Captain Swift, the bushranger, whose fortunes
flung him into the bosom of an ordinary English family, where he
learns love and the loveliness of duty, the sweetness of home,
the calm and balm of goodness, Herbert was superb — handsome,
graceful, winsome, dangerous, poetic ; there never was a finer
study — though " study " is the wrong word, for Herbert did not
give the part an instant's thought. It appealed to him, and
he could not help acting it exactly as he did.

Between the trial matinee and the production in September,
Herbert and I went to the Engadine for our summer holiday.
Herbert had an instinctive dislike of dizzy heights and dangerous
descents (he could never bear to see from a window painters and
cleaners at their rocking elevation of the ladder's top). There-
fore the twelve-hours' drive in an Einspanner from Coire to
St. Moritz — a skip from chasm to chasm, a flitting on the very
verge of precipitate death, was half-delight, half-terror. We felt
that only the sure-footed good-nature of the ponies intervened
between us and eternity. We got used to the uncertainty after
a time, and were able to feel that amid those rushing glacier
streams, amid those everlasting hills of snow, we two did not
matter extraordinarily. This reminds me of a story he used to
love and quote. Tennyson, looking at the stars through a tele-
scope, turns round and says, after a long, silent gazing, " I don't
think very much of our County Families ! "

Our hearts sank when we read in Baedeker that " at this
point in the Engadine, all vegetation ceases ; ' ' and we began
to be home-sick for a beech-wood. But the great mountains,
the glaciers, the meadows carpeted with wild flowers, soon
dispelled our depression. At evening we arrived at the Kulm,
and rubbed our eyes at emerging from the mystery and awe of
the twilight hills and valleys to the glare of a smart hotel, with
large numbers of diamond-laden ladies streaming into the table
d'hote.

After less than a week of winter sports by day and midsummer
madness by night — such was the " note ' of St. Moritz— we
migrated to the simpler life of Pontresina. Simpler though it
was, I must own that we hated it at first. The bare hotel,

36 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

along whose carpetless corridors ardent Alpo-maniacs " spudded "
incessantly ; the " spudders " themselves (Herbert had, or
professed, a great contempt and loathing for these " spudders,"
as he christened them), with their conceited top-of-the-mountain
aspect and equipment ; the Spartan spirit of the commissariat ;
the desolate winter prevailing while the newspapers lied " July '
— all this seemed to us not in the happy holiday mood we were
seeking. However, Herbert, as always, soon acclimatized himself,
made friends, coined phrases, cracked jokes, organized expedi-
tions, even climbed mountains — climbed a mountain, perhaps I
had better say, for he accomplished but one of those detestable,
never-to-be-forgiven feats. Having been at last induced to
take up our spuds and walk, I vaguely remember the starting
in the bitter summer darkness before dawn, after day-before
preparations of endless magnitude ; the long walk through dark-
ling valleys, the party in a long string, very happy and cheerful
for the first few hours — but gradually sobering down, for our
spirits fell into the abysses that our bodies escaped. I remember
the difficulty of picking one's way over the ploughed fields of
moraine-scattered glacier (not a glacier made of glittering white
ice, as one had supposed, but Regent Street, with the road
up, in muddy November), the gradual mounting in the gathering
day, but always in the shadow of some giant crag, so that life
and light were extinct ; the arrival at last — about midday
— at very nearly the top of the particular peak to be assailed.
Further than very nearly the top Herbert refused to let me
go. I have said he shrank from dizzy heights ; and though
he steeled himself to endure to the end, he could not bear it for
me — and I was left with all but the bravest spirits of our party
to sit upon a shuddering ledge and wait for the enthusiasts' return.
As they limped back, the proper spirit prevailed of something-
attempted-somcthing-done ; but when a glowing German
Professor commiserated me on having forgone such glory,
" Glorious it was, yes," said Herbert ; ' I wouldn't have
missed it. for a thousand pounds. And I wouldn't do it again
for a million."

Lovely drives we used to have — drives that, with two hours
for lunch, took us all day— drives to Silvaplana, to Samaden,
to the Maloya Pass, which was nothing but an hotel on a

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38 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

glacier,* from whose terrace we looked down the slopes into Italy.
That Pisgah sight made us feel homesick for summer. Herbert
made friends and found friends everywhere ; and I think my un-
sociability grieved him ; but I had ever an absolute terror of
being bored ; whereas he, a student of men, hardly knew the
meaning of the word. Games bored him, certainly — golf, and
cards, and cricket ; but swimming, riding, rowing and skating
he revelled in ; and, though he did not care for it in a ball-
room sense, his dancing was delicious — naturally spontaneous
and gay.

On our way home from the Engadine we lingered for a few
nights seeing beautiful Niirnberg and stately Heidelberg ;
then we made our way to our home and to Captain Swift.

As a quotation or motto for the play, my sister Bertha, she
of poetic fancy and fine literary taste, suggested to Herbert
the lovely words : " There is some soul of goodness in things
evil," and they were delightedly adopted in all ensuing pro-
grammes and advertisements. Herbert's new reading of the last
act put a seal on the success, and we never undertook a happier
or more congenial enterprise. Those mysterious profits, too,
began to be " touched," and I started the Early Victorian Era,
as we called it — a little carriage, too obviously a hired one for
fashionable feats, but a pleasant means of taking the air.
Herbert, too, used to ride every day — he rode extremely well ;
and it was very easy for us, with Mr. Brown, of horse and carriage
fame, flourishing beneath the floor of our drawing-room, to
satisfy our equine aspirations. Indeed, so easy and pleasant
were the months of winter and spring that I remember nothing
about them save contentment and prosperity. Ambition and
enterprise were left to Herbert (and many plans were formu-
lating in his busy brain) ; I lived but to act and to enjoy. I
revelled in pretty clothes, and Herbert delighted to see me
well-dressed, never scolding me, as he should have done, for my
extravagance. We had a great many standing gaieties, such
as Sunday luncheons and dinners, with such historic hosts
as Lady Wati rford, Lady Dorothy Nevill, the Wharncliffes, the
1 ■lumenthals — delightful parties at the Grosvenor Gallery ; many

* As a matter of dull fact, it is not on a glacier. — M.T.

HERBERT AND I 39

and many a tiny supper or luncheon party at the theatre or at
home.

Herbert had a kind of hero-worship for his father. Nothing
gave him so much pleasure as when " The Sire," as I always
called him, came to us to be entertained. Of course he was always
a great figure at our more important feasts : but Herbert took
childish delight in his father's dignified delight over good wines,
choice food and a luxurious cigar at our own house : and I caught
from Herbert a tender pride in trying to elicit approbation from
this Spartan bon viveur.

Mr. Beerbohm (the name Beerbohm was originally Dutch, by
the bye, and was spelt Beerboom) was born in 1810, the youngest
son of parents who lived to an extreme old age, and of a family
of immense strength and splendid physique, so that it was said
' Nothing kills a Beerbohm but an axe." The home for gener-
ations was a small estate near Memel, on the Russian border.
Herbert's sisters describe this as a rambling house, long and
low and wide, with many outbuildings and stables and with
a beautiful garden, a riot of syringa and honeysuckle. Distin-
guished guests, such as an Emperor of Russia and a King of
Prussia, seem to have been welcomed in what must evidently
have been this picturesque and romantic home of the Beerbohms
on the Baltic Sea. But these august visitations must have
occurred either before or after the time of Herbert's father,
for he did not personally encounter them. At eighteen he left
Germany altogether, and took up his abode in France, loving
all his life French people and everything that was French. He
was somewhat of a dandy in those days, and his great height
and good looks gained him a nickname among his Parisian friends.
They called him, not Monsieur Beerbohm, but " Monsieur
Su-perbe Homme." After ten years he migrated to England,
where, lodging in St. James's Square, he led a bachelor existence,
full of gay and simple joie-de-vivre. He did not marry till he
was forty, and then he chose the charming and radiant Constantia
Beerbohm, who died, alas ! before her thirtieth year.

He was a man of beautiful, courtly manners ; of divine
humour, of wide intelligence, of vivid industry, tempered by
vivid absent-mindedness. (It is told of him that he once

40 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

journeyed by omnibus and walked into his office with his bed-
room slippers under his arm instead of his newspaper.) He
could not bear to be bored. I remember that once, when fun
was flagging, I saw him get up gropingly. " What are you
looking for, Sire ? " I asked. " The door," he answered grimly.
But he joined with the greatest glee in the laugh against
himself when I rallied him. He had great culture and an
astounding memory, and an astounding capacity for learning,
without being what is called a scholar. Already master of seven
European languages, he was learning an eighth, Anglo-Saxon,
when he died. — When he died ! — I cannot bear to remember
Herbert's grief.

Then there was " The Lady." (I called them The Sire and
The Lady because they were the best examples of gentle-people
that I ever met.) The Lady (Herbert's stepmother) was a
pattern of distinction and humour : of beautiful manners, of
witty converse — the most delightful companion in the world.
She had extraordinary energy and vitality — and an extraordinary
activity of mind and body. To the day of her death, though the
frail body became weak and the large mind became clouded,
she continued to welcome, to dismiss and to appraise with
persistent and unassailable humour. Her love for her husband
and children and step-children was an engulfing one : she would
have died every day to save them. She loved me, too, and
our children ; we ought always to be grateful for so much
love.

In the spring Herbert essayed his first Shakespearean produc-
tion— the forerunner of his famous category. The rich humour
of Falstaff, in The Merry Wives, had always attracted him ;
while the fairy fantasy of the last act touched a chord in him
which was ever vibrant. And to me, to be allowed to sing
and skip at will, as Anne Page, was unalloyed delight. Rose
Leclercq, that sweetest of women, that fine actress, was of
course a Merry Wife. She had a heart as light as mine. She
and 1 used rarely to address one another except in song ; the
merest morning greeting meant a joyous little dance. She was
with us for many years ; and I never entered the theatre without
a high-pitched kind of bugle-call — " O, my dear lady, lady, lady,
lady ; Oho, my dear lady ! "

HERBERT AND I 41

She used to answer me in her clear voice, and it became as
mechanical in the theatre as " Beginners, please."

Mr. Kemble's Dr. Caius, Mr. Kemble's strange, rich, mellow
personality, Mr. Kemble's unique, if somewhat sardonic, humour
— what a joy they were to Herbert ! Mr. Brookfield's Slender,
Robson's Sir Hugh Evans : — indeed every performance of The
Merry Wives was fraught with enjoyment to that splendid
Falstaff, whose light feet twinkled to the gay and tender tunes
of Nicolai and Sullivan. (Strange ! it may have been fancy,
engendered by his " make-up," but I always thought he
danced, as Falstaff, with the peculiar grace and buoyancy that
only fat men have, if they dance at all : like a bobbing cork on
the water, as distinguished from a straw.)

Herbert had already begun what was probably the first
inception of a Repertory Theatre : The Merry Wives was pro-

-^m i rn ! m - i ' ' II \ \ I

-U-

duced at a series of matinees, while Captain Swift was running
at night ; and Masks and Faces he gave, also at matinees —
he as Triplet (lovely performance), Mrs. Bernard Beere as Peg
Womngton, I as Mabel Vane ; a delightful experience for us ;
a tremendous success with our audiences. I shall be corrected,
I daresay, if I affirm that Herbert initiated Wednesday as well as
Saturday matinees — but it is my impression that it was he who
made this important innovation.

In June, while we were acting The Merry Wives, we took a
furnished house on Hampstead Heath, with a garden full of
roses, and with pleasant Victorian rooms. It was delicious for
Viola, who made her first acquaintance with the Hampstead
donkeys ; but, because of our work and the gaieties of the
London season, in which we took our full share, we were there
but little except on Sundays. The little carriage used to fetch
us early in the day, and bring us home, often in the small hours
of the morning. I remember one occasion when it waited for
us at the stage-door of the Lyceum Theatre until, in the
reproachful splendour of the morn, we emerged after a supper-

42 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

party given by Sir Henry Irving for the Prince of Wales (King
Edward). This was a wonderful entertainment of music and
roses, and a huge round table on the stage at which sat not a
great many guests, but a small gathering of interesting and
distinguished people. I recall this because the record of it is
among a very few entries in a Diary for 1889.

One annual festivity which gave us never-failing joy was the
New Year's Eve party at the George Lewis' wide, warm, warm-
hearted house in Portland Place. Regularly as December itself,
we were invited and royally entertained from the first year
that we knew them, until the death of the kind and princely
host and our well-beloved friend, Sir George Lewis. To attempt
a list of the light-hearted, laughter-loving guests who pulled
crackers and set plum-puddings afire on those gleeful occasions
would be vain — a mere Who's Whoism — but if I close my
eyes I see and hear — motley as to the shape of the paper caps
on their heads and pandemonium as to tin whistles in their
mouths — Sargent, Tadema, Galsworthy, Pinero, Ellen Terry,
Barrie, Ray Lankester, Mason, Anthony Hope, Benson, Burne-
Jones, Sylvia du Maurier (to whom Who is Sylvia ? always
seemed to me to have been written), Henry James and Harry
and Laurence Irving, with Herbert always the gayest of the gay.

It was at the Lewis' hospitable house that we first met Sir
Ernest Cassel, at whose generous hands we received many and
costly kindnesses. Dinners — they were banquets ; suppers
— they were — well, what best the Blue Hungarian Band
loved to accompany ; long week-ends and lovely Christmas
presents ; what peerless hosts he and his lovable sister — and
as godfather to Iris, what a princely pearl-finder and gift-
bringer ! He was everything to all of us that a good friend
could be, and an unfailing source of the excitements and joys
that lay so largely in his power to give.

There were a regular set of non-theatrical Sunday dinner-
givers — che Seymour Trowers, the George Boughtons, the
Carl Meyers, the Morel Mackenzies, the de la Rues and the
Heilbuts — by all of whom it was a privilege to be asked and a joy
to be entertained. (Herbert had known the Heilbuts all their
married life, and knew Mr. Heilbut well enough to call him
" Sam." I remember " Sam " Heilbut once entertained Viola,

King John.

[From " The Pall Mall Budget:'

A Village Priest

wfvJo Q/MfOmj*.

$
&>

Laroque - Lu versan .

[By permission of " The Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News "

44 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

Herbert and me the whole way from Calais to Paris by showing
us card tricks, being, en amateur, a master of sleight-of-
hand.)

Then there were wonderful dream-like parties in the great
studios of Tadema, Leighton, Millais, Watts, Poynter, Burne-
Jones and Alfred Gilbert. Here, in grand and mystic setting,
one listened to the divine discourse of music, one nestled in
the very heart of culture and learning and beauty.

Regularly as a dog licence, each succeeding January brought
me a smart new Diary. But I must have been loath to sully
those fair, polished pages, for scarcely ever are they marred
by mark of pen or pencil. The bright blue one for this year,
however, has red-letter days, for in it a miracle occurs. Towards
the end of July there are records by Herbert himself :

July 24. Little Viola went out to Dinard with Marie to
stay with the old folks from home. We went
to Otello (opera). Tamagno and Maurel sang
and acted splendidly as Othello and Iago.

July 25. We started on our Continental tour, leaving
Hampstead at 9.30 a.m. Uneventful day — not
even sea-sickness (thank Heaven !), although
the sea was rough. Dined at the " Filet de
Sole " Restaurant in Brussels — capital dinner
— started again at 11 p.m.

July 26. All day in train — read Amelie Rives' play,
Andrea Vertoni — much struck with its passion-
ate force — wonder whether she will do great
things — determined to ask her to adapt for the
stage Rossetti's " Last Confession." Arrived
at eight o'clock at Munich — went to " Vier
Jahreszeiten " Hotel.

Then, alas ! no more Diary ; but how vividly even those few
scribblings recall that holiday — those holy days — wonderful and
ever-to-be-grateful-for I

By permission of]

GRINGOIRE."

[The London Stereoscopic Co.
" THE DUKE OF GUISEBURY."

• 1

■ WP^

" FAGIN."
A pastel by Charles Bucliel.

Photo by] [F. Burford.

" PAUL DEMETRIUS."

HERBERT AND I 45

Though the recording impulse in Herbert gave out, in me it
lingered for a few more days. I find that on July 29th we arrived
at Salzburg ; that the next day we drove to Aigen — " long walk
to top of green wooded hill " — that on July 30th we spent the
morning exploring the salt-mine at Berchtesgaden, and after-
wards drove to the beautiful Konigsee — " a lovely dream of a
lake surrounded by mountains, getting there at six o'clock,
just when the light was loveliest : dined on the banks of the lake,
drove home in the dark — Happy day ! "

We lingered in Ausee, in Ischl, in Munich, to find ourselves,
at last, listening, enraptured, to Tristan and Isolde at Bayreuth.
Our stay in the same house as the Henschels at Bayreuth, and
Bayreuth's operas were an intoxicating delight to Herbert ; he
revelled in every hour, inasmuch as for Wagner, not only as a
maker of music but as a maker of plays, he had the most pro-
found reverence and admiration. The joy and humour of the
Meister singers ; the love and wonder and tragedy of Tristan ;
the sacred beauty of Parsifal (for Herbert was, in the depths
of him, a religious man) made calls upon his heart, his imagina-
tion, his sense of beauty, such as nothing else in the world.
The time spent in Bayreuth, both within and without that
Temple of Art, was, to him, one of utter enchantment and bliss.
I remember that there were faults in the production of
Parsifal ; details that marred emotion and came short of per-
fection ; but the Good Friday morning meadows seemed to
convey to him something of the divine. " I cannot bear it,"
he would say : " it is too beautiful " — his blue eyes full of
yearning tears, and his hand seeking one's hand for sympathy.

Immediately upon our return, we must have plunged into
hard work ; the long and difficult rehearsals of A Man's Shadow,
Mr. Sydney Grundy's version of Roger la Honte. In this,
Herbert accomplished one of the many of his amazing tours de
force — doubling the parts of Luversan and Laroque. The play
was produced on September 12th, and was an immense success.
Herbert's double performance was startling in its perfection ;
whether as the bewildered and tortured hero (Oh, how exactly
like himself was Herbert in his tender, agonized appeal to his
little child, who unconsciously condemned him ! The tors

HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

of blood in his eyes and in his voice !) ; or as the debauched,
absinthe-sodden villain, with his harsh, satiric singing :

^^m i i

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^gjLw*. *« - - ww*** — »** A»-*< ^w*-

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— ~" Gmmf/tam «£«••

arqr

Minnie Terry, a child of eight, was the exquisite little ex-
ponent of Suzanne, with the historic phrase, " I saw nothing — ■
I heard nothing." That daughter of the gods, divinely fair,
brilliant Julia Neilson, was the " wicked woman," and what
a wonder of beauty she was ! Gifted to an inordinate degree,
and born with the dramatic sense, she, an amateur, had nothing
to learn. Indeed, her fault in those days, if she had a fault,
was that her acting was too technical for her years.

An isolated entry in the aforesaid blue diary tells me :

December 16. Hundredth performance of A Man's Shadow

— Herbert has man's supper-party —
Irving makes touching speech in honour
of Herbert's father.

This was one of many a Haymarket Theatre supper-party
— a form of entertainment that Herbert revelled in, and
welcomed any excuse for giving. Unless the party were a very
large one, as on the 200th or 300th night of Captain Swift,
when the stage was requisitioned, he used to give these little
feasts in the only room available at the Haymarket —the first-

HERBERT AND I 47

floor room of the little Georgian house in Suffolk Street which
served as an annexe to the theatre. This was used as an office
by Herbert and Mr. Comyns Carr, and I used to subject it to
much " charring " on supper nights, for it was always left to me
to grapple with flowers, lights, luxuries and Gunter.

How Herbert loved hospitality ! What a crime it was in
his eyes not to give, if one gave at all, the very best of things !

Our home-life at New Cavendish Street was, as I have said,
very even and entirely happy — the days almost unvarying.
He used to leave for the theatre at eleven, often borrowing
Viola for the drive in his hansom, and come back to dine towards
five o'clock, seldom without bringing someone to eat with us
— or someone unwilling to eat at that hour, but willing to watch
us do so. This early dinner-hour was Viola's bonne-bouche hour.
It was then that she learnt the taste for asparagus in March
and strawberries in May (for it was my delight to please Herbert
by springing on him culinary surprises, as it was my custom
to provide for and welcome any chance guest he chose to bring
home with him). One of our most frequent visitors was Charles
Allan : combined actor, secretary, gourmet, butt and wit,
and an unfailing source of humour — at Allan's smiling expense
— to Herbert. Of him Herbert invented the story (after a
repast of which, as hostess, I had been particularly proud, and
for which I had hoped for thanks and praise) : "I am afraid
it hasn't been a very good dinner, Mr. Allan ? " — " Oh, thank
you, Mrs. Tree ; it does one good to underfeed sometimes." And
again, when we had filled and refilled his glass with our nearest
approach to Chateau Lafitte : " Talking of cheap claret, Mrs.
Tree, I know a man who " — etc.

These are two of the hundreds of Allanania which made
laughter for us during the 3'ears that that good and gentle friend
was with us. He was content with the tiniest parts, and was
what is called a " safe " actor. Once — it was in The Village
Priest — he had only one appearance to make, as a gendarme in
the last act, and only two words to say : " Allons ! Marche ! "
Sir Henry Irving came to see the play, to our intense excitement ;
and at the end, when the great guest came on to the stage, Herbert
and I waited for his praise, which indeed we deserved, for the
production was exquisite, and Herbert's own part — the gentle

48 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

old Abbe — one of his masterpieces. Irving came, and uttered
but these words : " Good night ! Allan excellent ! God bless
you!

The Village Priest followed A Man's Shadow, which was
attended on its last night (in April) by Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone.

Mr. Gladstone came on to the stage after the play, and asked
as to the political opinions of the theatrical world. Herbert
answered, " Conservative, on the whole ; but," he added hastily,
as he saw a darkening in his distinguished visitor's face, " the
scene-shifters are Radical almost to a man." They parted firm
friends.

The part of the Abbe du Bois, in A Village Priest, was one
after Herbert's heart ; and sweet and lovely was his performance.
After all these years, one remembers the gentle, humorous,
absent-minded old man ; browbeaten by his shrew-tongued
housekeeper, as he sat beneath his blossoming apple-tree ;
the friend of his flowers, and adored of his flock, diffusing an
atmosphere that hung between earth and Heaven, but always
nearer Heaven. The Abbe's garden was an enchanting scene,
with its old high wall, its ail-but growing flowers, and its ail-but
real fruit-tree in blossom. We owed that apple-tree to the
genius of Alfred Parsons, who made us a most wonderful water-
colour sketch of what an apple-tree in full blossom should be —
a lovely little picture which he gave us, which Herbert treasured
and which Comyns Carr envied him. Between them, I,
who had set my heart on it, lost control of its destiny, and alas !
I have it not. But somewhere there exists an Alfred Parsons
gem which belongs to Herbert and me. In dwelling upon
that peaceful garden and the picture's blossoming loveliness,
which we did our best to reproduce, I bear in mind that it was
thirty years ago : but I do not know that anything of to-day
in the way of stage-setting has put that sunny scene-plot into
the shctde.

The story of A Village Priest (an adaptation by Sydney
Grundy of Le Secret de la Terreuse) led to interesting and
exciting controversies. The subject of the dispute was put
forward by a well-known critic, an ardent Roman Catholic,
who bitterly resented it being allowed that the violation of

Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone at the Haymarket Theatre.

50 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

the Confessional should be presented as possible, even as an
episode in a stage-play. In the course of the discussion, Herbert
read and wrote many scorching letters in the Press. Several
of his passionate ebullitions were, by my advice, torn up as soon
as written : but the public discussions did no sort of harm
(they seldom do) to the popularity of the play. ' We acquit
the dramatist at once of any intention to attack the Roman
Catholic priesthood. He has erred in ignorance and his error
is also false in art. A noble drama could have been made of
the subject if the Abbe had been kept faithful under all trials
to his duty." {Catholic Times, 25th April, 1890.)

One day in May (Marion Terry and Fred Terry and the
Ogilvies had been lunching with us), we hired one of the many
carriages that, so to speak, grew beneath our feet, and drove
to Hampstead, with no more fixed intention than a post-prandial
air-taking. As luck — or ill-luck — would have it, we chanced
upon a large house standing on the summit of the Heath, sur-
rounded by three acres of garden, and by large meadows, bearing
the irresistible legend, " To Let Unfurnished." Before evening
it was ours, and in a few weeks we said good-bye to our Seven
Stables, and were ensconced, pic-nic fashion, at The Grange.
By dint of distemper and riotous rummaging in old-furniture
shops, we made it very pretty and charming, and we both loved
it. It was a paradise for Viola, who looks back with love and
regret to the many delights of Heath and garden. Could we
but have foreseen the coming of the Tube and the Taxi we
might never have known any other home : for a sweeter could
not be conceived. As it was, when the perfect days of our
first summer and autumn there had hardened into the grimmest
winter on record, we all three lived — for we just did live —
to regret our warm little house in New Cavendish Street.

But many and momentous things happened in our theatre-
world before then. A Village Priest ran its triumphant course
from April to mid- July, shortened a little after the first month
or two, to make room for W. S. Gilbert's Comedy and Tragedy,
which was played as a first piece by Julia Neilson and Fred
i crry and proved a great attraction. In May, June and
July there were many gaieties, some of which are recorded as

HERBERT AND I 51

engagements in my ill-kept diary. The Grossmiths, the Arthur
Lewis, the George Lewis, the de la Rues, the Morel Mackenzies
gave dances ; the Manners, the du Mauriers, the Bancrofts,
the Kendals, the Luke Fildes were our hosts and our guests,
and often we went to political parties, brilliant and interesting,
at Lady Salisbury's house in Arlington Street. We lunched one
Sunday with the Semons, to meet Hans Richter, and Herbert
made a note in a scribbling-book of mine : " Hans Richter said
of Verdi, on being reminded of the great influence that Wagner
had exercised on his later works : ' Ah, yes, he has improved
greatly to his disadvantage.' "

There were two parties, late in July, the remembrance of
which has never been effaced : one, at Lady Ardilaun's, I remem-
ber because it was the most perfect thing that a party could be.
A radiant summer night, wherein we left the lovely, stately house
for the lighted garden — the first coming of the Hungarian Band,
with its wild and haunting mystery of music ; the gloss of satin
and glimmer of pearls, the brilliant assembly — unforgettable
delight to us both. The gipsy-music thrilled Herbert's gipsy
heart to the very core ; and there was one thing he begged them to
play again and again (from Dcr Vogel Handler, I think) : it was
as ecstasy to him, and he christened it " Nothing Matters." That,
of course, became a household word with us, and he used it as
the title of his second book. But his own faith was not so
cynical, for his final conclusion at the end of one of his stories
was : " Nothing Matters ? The pity of it. Everything
matters."

Another memorable evening was our first at the Foreign
Office. It was in the magnificent days, and the splendour of
the scene made Herbert thirst to reproduce on the stage such
a glittering effect of colour, music and grandeur ; of all the
wealth and dignity and worth of the world. He spoke of it

to one of the greatest of our statesmen. Mr. answered,

' I have written a play ; and the third act could be the staircase
of the Foreign Office." The play came to us in due course,
and I have it still. I do not know to this day why it was never
produced : I think because the great man, its author, would
not allow his authorship to leak out, much less to be attached
to it. Herbert, I suppose, did not think the play, without the

52 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

reclame of its famous writer's name, would justify an enormously
expensive production. Also he may not have liked the part
destined for him. At all events, the excitement flourished,
languished, and presently died. But I am grateful for an
episode that brought us into familiar touch with one of the
greatest brains, one of the most powerful personalities of our
time.

Herbert had always ridden ; and Viola learnt from him
both to swim and to ride while yet in infancy ; but I must
candidly confess that even now I do not know upon which
side of a horse one had better attempt to get up. Whichever
it is, it never seems to be the side that one generally falls off.
While we were at Hampstead, Herbert's lawyer, Mr. Webb,
who lived near us, thought that I ought to be taught to
accompany Herbert and him upon the many riding expeditions
that they took together. So he brought a beautiful horse (I
suppose experts would call it a mare) — Princess — from his own
stable, and all through the sweet summer weather we used to
go forth early, we three (I vainly pretending not to hold on
by the mane). I found it (except galloping, which terrified me,
and trotting, which I could not learn) extraordinarily pleasant
and exhilarating, and a divine way of seeing " how greenly
wave the chestnut leaves when the earth is full of joy." We
first knew dear Mr. Webb during one of our financial crises,
when we were at Cheyne Walk, and from that day to this he
has been our good and faithful friend. Herbert and I used to
amuse ourselves by trying to find the thing that Mr. Webb did
not know, the subject he had not studied, the science he was
not master of. We never succeeded. His inveterate habit
of knowledge always spoilt the game. In trying to teach me
to ride he would lightly scour the world of literature and art ;
natural history and botany ; the stars, the earth, the sea,
and the story of mankind — though often my battle with that
terrible and elusive weapon, the stirrup, would interrupt the
flow of his wisdom. I might have ended as a circus rider, but
that those genial lessons did not outlive our sojourn at
Hampstead.

Our summer holiday was spent among the roses in our own

HERBERT AND I 53

garden, with busy mornings at the theatre, preparing for Herbert's
first provincial tour. This began on August 3rd, at Brighton,
whence we went to the then new and now all-familiar towns :
Dublin, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Liverpool, Birmingham, Man-
chester. How we both enjoyed it ! And what success, what
friends, what glad experience were gained by Herbert wherever
he went ! What influence was spread ! The utmost luxury
and indulgence were mine ; my only grievance was that I was
homesick for Viola, for I had to leave her behind after Brighton.
Herbert's gentle heart, loving nothing better than to spring
a glad surprise, conceived the plan of bringing her back with
him "as a present " when he had to travel from Liverpool to
London for Sunday. I remember the fun and joyousness of
his putting a rug over her and pretending she was luggage when
I met him at the Birmingham station. Above all things, Herbert
welcomed fun ; and he liked birthdays, anniversaries, present-
giving and present-receiving ; the hidden Easter egg, the secret
Christmas stocking ; the gift expected and traditional, or the
gift unexpected and whimsical — how often has he not entered
into their joys !

On September 27th, I find in my diary : " Last day of tour.
The dear Company present Herbert with beautiful silver
present. Mr. Fernandez makes charming speech, and makes
both Herbert and me cry. How dear of him ! And how sweet
to feel how they love and respect Herbert, and how proud they
are of what he has done."

The theatre reopened with A Village Priest and Comedy and
Tragedy. But Repertory schemes were surging in Herbert's
brain ; he could not content himself with quiet, long runs to
moderate profits ; though those about him questioned the
wisdom of his unrest. Indeed, in obstinately inaugurating his
' Special Monday Nights " Herbert defied the better judgment
of all those who thought they knew anything about theatrical
enterprise. Perhaps they were right, but only because Herbert
was many years in advance of his time, and, alas ! many thou-
sands in advance of his banking-account. He tried to do in
1890 what was looked upon as a new idea in the next century.
But perhaps an actual quotation of Herbert's speech on the first

54 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

night of Beau Austin (with which the " Haymarket Mondays "
began) will tell its own tale :

" Ladies and Gentlemen,

" Mr. Henley is in Edinburgh — and Mr. Stevenson is,
alas ! in the Antipodes in search of health. But I am sure that
both gentlemen will be gratified to hear of the brilliant manner
in which their joint work has been received by you. I cannot
help adding my own thanks for the auspicious manner in which
we have been able to inaugurate the Monday nights, which I
hope may prove a regular institution at this theatre. I hope
we have at least succeeded in catching something of that old-
world bloom which Mr. Henley refers to in his Prologue. I
will take this opportunity of removing a slight misapprehension
which has arisen about our Monday nights. I have seen it
stated that we intend to present a new play every Monday ;
but admirable as this plan sounds in the abstract, it labours
under the disadvantage of being physically impossible. Nothing
less than a strike of the Haymarket Company would be the
outcome of such an attempt to encompass the unattainable.
But, ladies and gentlemen, it will be my endeavour to present
to you this winter season as frequently as may be the works
of past and contemporary authors. Of course we shall be in
a measure guided by popular support in this endeavour, but
we shall not, however, consider the commercial aspect of the
case of the first importance. Quite the reverse : although
such a resolve may be regarded with some ridicule, that is what
we mean to do. Mr. Whistler once remarked, ' There is some-
thing in a painter's art which even a photographer does not
always attain to.' Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to thank
you on behalf of Messrs. Henley and Stevenson and of my
Company for the kindly way in which you have received our
efforts."

Beau Austin/ What a jewel of a play! Herbert's per-
formance of the Exquisite — how exquisite ! I am proud indeed
to have been included in that cast, to have been concerned in
so memorable, so historic an event as a play by Stevenson
and Henley.

HERBERT AND I 55

Prologue to Beau Austin, by W. E. Henley

" ' To all and singular,' as Dryden says.
We bring a fancy of those Georgian days,
Whose style still breathed a faint and fine perfume
Of old-world courtliness and old-world bloom ;
When speech was elegant and talk was fit,
For slang had not been canonized as wit ;
When manners reigned, when breeding had the wall,
And women — yes ! — were ladies first of all ;
When Grace was conscious of its gracefulness,
And man — though Man ! — was not ashamed to dress.
A brave formality, a measured ease
Were his and hers — whose effort was to please,
And to excel in pleasing was to reign,
And, if you sighed, never to sigh in vain.

But then as now, maybe something more —

Woman and man were human to the core.

The hearts that throbbed behind that quaint attire

Burned with a plenitude of essential fire.

They too could risk, they also could rebel,

They could love wisely — they could love too well.

In that great duel of sex, that ancient strife

Which is the very central fact of life,

They could — and did — engage it breath for breath ;

They could — and did — get wounded unto death,

As at all times since time for us began

Woman was truly woman — Man was man ;

And joy and sorrow were as much at home

In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome.

Dead — dead and done with I Swift from shine to shade

The roaring generations flit and fade.

To this one — fading, flitting, like the rest,

We come to proffer, be it worst or best,

A sketch, a shadow of the brave old time :

A hint of what it might have held sublime ;

A dream, an idyll — call it what you will,

Of man, still Man, and woman — Woman still ! "

It was some years later that Herbert put on the stage,
Stevenson and Henley's Robert Macaire, but he must have been

56 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

thinking of it before 1887 (when Stevenson left Bournemouth),
as this letter to him from the great author proves :

" Bonallie Tower,
" Branksome Park,
" Bournemouth,

" January 2nd.
" Dear Sir,

" Mr. Henley may have perhaps sent you on a note,
but it was in his discretion ; very likely he has not ; and if so,
why all the better, as fresh study of the problem has changed
my views, and I write now to say that I am in love with the
idea of recasting Robert ; keeping the murder, and in fact
the lines of the whole second act, and simply making a new and
entirely comic first act. I believe we have some ideas that
will do well ; your proposal was, I think, inspired ; a better
subject cannot be imagined ; and if the thing be done as it
deserve, an actor should get effects of laughter and of occasional
strength out of it, quite a la Robson, that should bring the house
down.

" In all matters of arrangement, of course, continue to deal
with Mr. Henley ; but may I say that I am persuaded, and so,
I think, is he, that three weeks should be enough to run the
thing together.

" Yours truly,

" Robert Louis Stevenson.
" H. Beerbohm Tree, Esq."

I am proud to have it thus writ down- that Stevenson thanks
Herbert for an " inspired proposal " ! As to Mr. Henley, he
often came to see us, and we delighted to honour him. Once,
at Sloane Street, he and Mrs. Henley brought with them to our
five o'clock dinner their little girl, well called by them " the
golden child," for she was like a ray of light, a being of ineffable
loveliness and charm, whose death, when she was but a baby of
four, must literally have broken her father's heart.

Many rehearsals and the growing importance of Herbert's
managerial work made the top of Hampstead Heath seem a very

HERBERT AND I 57

long way from the Haymarket ; and hansoms hastily fetched
by the gardener from Finchley Road were our only means of
reaching London. Sometimes, starting late, we used to tear
on foot down those long hills that lay between us and the cab-
stand, anxious, foaming and panting at the delay ; and often,
as the winter came on, we had to quit our hansom at night and
walk up Fitzjohn's Avenue, rendered impossible for horses by
the frost. Then came heavy snowfall and drifts, through which
we had to cut our way at the stern bidding of our work, or in
order to reach the light and warmth and comfort of The Grange
on our return. It is not to be wondered at that in the New
Year I was stricken with rheumatic fever, and that Herbert
actually stayed " out of the bill " for one night with acute
bronchitis ! This was almost the first week of his triumphantly
successful production of The Dancing Girl, by Henry Arthur
Jones — and nothing would induce Herbert to give way to his
illness, or to surrender his part, in which he made one of the
greatest successes of his life. So he was taken away from The
Grange in a brougham, wrapped in blankets, and accompanied
by nurse and doctor, I weepingly watching him from the window
of my sick-room, and having my tears turned to laughter when
he insisted on putting on his top-hat over the rug that en-
veloped his head. He was put in hospital at the hotel next
door to the theatre, nursed all day, and permitted (because he
insisted) to act every nighl. This was the only actual illness
he ever had. Mine was a much longer one — and it was many
weeks before I could leave my room — so that I did not see The
Dancing Girl until it had been filling the theatre for about two
months, though I had been at all the rehearsals, and had seen
beautiful Julia Neilson grow into her wonderful performance,
Fred Terry into his, Lionel Brough, Rose Leclercq and Rose
Norreys into theirs. But I had not guessed what an enchanting
personality was to be given to the Duke of Guisebury by Herbert.
" Mr. Beerbohm Tree achieves by touches fine, as well as
touches broad, a marvellously lifelike portrait of the genial,
generous, courageous rake, cynically bent upon his own destruc-
tion. He is a delightful creature, this ducal defier of les con-
venances, as he chats to his dog, Bully-boy, as he dissembles on
the eve of his intended suicide, and as he prepares to wind up

58 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

his life as a game that he has played and lost." So wrote one
of the most important of London critics — while the Hazlitt of
those days pronounced : " Mr. Tree's performance is perfect ; '
and added : " The third act places Mr. Tree (where he has not
hitherto stood) on a level with our very best stage-managers.
No social picture on so large a scale has ever been so successfully
presented. It is a Du Maurier in action."

Herbert, the dare-devil Duke, fascinating, lovable, became
the idol of the matinee girl ; Bully-boy, the goal of the dog-
stealer ; beautiful Julia Neilson the very byword for the stealer
of hearts ; and Rose Leclercq as the aunt of the " wicked
Duke," the pattern for all time of the theatrical Great Lady.
I remember the roar of laughter and applause that greeted her
exit in the third act, when the Duke, having determined to take
his life, tells her, as he bids her an affectionate adieu, that he is
on the eve of a long journey : "I don't know where you're going,
my dear ; but wherever you go, you'll shock them." Bully-boy
was the most charming bulldog the world has ever known ; the
adored of all who knew him, and the applauded of thousands, who
hummed with excitement when the time came for his stately
waddle on to the stage. He was lent us, for both home and
theatre, by the Outram Tristrams, and he made much joy for
us at The Grange, where Argus and he never had an instant's
dispute, although, collie and bulldog, " by their nature they
did not agree." Bully-boy, of course, had his song, which he
listened to with proud complacency :

And

" 'E's the pride of Piccadilly :
'E's the Pink of Pall Mall "—

" Oh, 'e's a beauty.
What's 'is duty ?—
Only let 'im know, 'e says.
Then 'e'll be glad to go, 'e says "

(to the tune of a Strauss valse).

All this spring (1891) we had rooms at Garlant's Hotel, next
door to the theatre, and we divided our time between hotel
and home. As to me, a sojourn at Bath with my dear Lady

By permission ol]

CARICATURE BY " SPY."

[" Vanity Fair."

HERBERT AND I 59

Stanley Clarke had completely restored my health ; but Herbert,
who had no " cure," no rest, no change, was sensitive to the
after-effects of bronchitis until the early summer had come —
and I tormented myself and him with anxiety about his health.
There used to be many " scenes," because he would not take
enough care, and, to anyone less tolerant than he, I should have
been the Princess of bores. (I remember, as I write, that
Herbert, as the Duke of Guisebury, gave as the reason of his
undying love for the Dancing Girl, " she never bores me ; "
a sentence repeated over and over again in answer to a screed
of protest from his lawyer. I think Herbert must have written
that thought himself. What a good thing for good women
to add to their prayers for others : " Give me the strength,
common sense and sympathy to keep me from being a bore ! ")

May and buttercup-time bring him restored health, and bring
us back to what is by now our lovely home. (" Our lovely
home," recalls that so-often distorted story of Herbert and the
cabman : " Home ! " he shouted through the hansom's roof.
' Where, sir? " asked the driver. " Do you think I'm going
to tell a person like you where my beautiful home is ? ' It was
Comyns Carr who once said to a strange Jehu, " Drive on ; "
and to the " Where ? " he answered, " The place whither they
brought her warrior dead." Without another word the cab-
man took him to his home.)

It was on the sunny terrace of the Hampstead house that
'Spy" made his "Vanity Fair" caricature, and it was
walking up and down that terrace that perhaps the most
momentous episode in my stage career took place. Herbert
had made up his mind to satisfy his deep longing to act Hamlet
— and he was steeping himself in the beauty of it. My reign as
leading-lady having now come to an end, I somewhat timidly
approached the subject of Ophelia, and learnt to my grief and
mortification that he had set his heart, not on Julia Neilson
— which would have seemed inevitable and not to be fought
against — but upon another actress, already famous, who seemed
to him his ideal. I recognized the soundness of his judgment
and the force of his arguments ; but I must have pleaded so
pitifully, and have protested so meekly (an attitude always sym-
pathetic to him), that at last he promised me I should at least

60 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

essay Ophelia in Manchester, and my playing it in London
should depend on the measure of my success. I always remember
and bless that June day, that sunny terrace, that (for me)
triumphant hour.

Meanwhile, though I was not sharing in the acting honours
of The Dancing Girl, I shared in all the luxuries of its financial
triumph ; and among many things, the best Broadwood that
money could buy arrived at The Grange as a proiitic present,
a long-anticipated and well-rehearsed " surprise." This Tinkling
Symbol of success has been a lasting delight such as no jewel
could have given me. Among many famous musicians, fingers
no less hallowed than Paderewski's have touched its dulcet
keys.

Alas ! for the Repertory Theatre and the " Haymarket
Mondays " ! These would have broken the brilliant run of the
most popular play in London, and with silent acquiescence on
both sides of the curtain they were dropped. As Herbert so
pungently remarked in later years : " When is a Repertory
not a Repertory ? " — " When it's a success."

With summer, while The Dancing Girl danced victoriously
on to its crowded houses, there were many gaieties of the usual
kind, some of them unusual and consequently remembered.
Our first Derby, for instance : in Frank Lawson's box. Mary
Lawson (once Mary Fortey, my college friend, afterwards Lady
Benedict) was both admirer and admiree of Herbert. He
found her finely humorous and intelligent. " She glints," he
said : a golden opinion which she was proud to win. Herbert
was amused by the Derby crowds — by Beauty at its worst, and
Beasts at their best — but he took scant interest in the actual
racing, though his eyes shone with delighted sympathy when
any of our party won ten shillings, and he was laughingly
tolerant of my first (and last) encounters with the book-making
world. And hard upon this excursion into the racing sphere
came another : our first Ascot. Herbert and I attended a cause
celebre, invited by Sir Edward Clarke, a lifelong friend ; during
its course, Lord Coventry (then Master of the Buckhounds)
leaned over to us and said, " Come to Ascot ? " And so we
went ; to my inexpressible delight (I attended religiously on

ffc 4BE.£R3o«n.TREc& hr Miss

iH C0t/7*T

The Baccarat Case.

[By permission o/ ' T/ic Daily Graphit.

62 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

all four days, and religiously every summer), and to Herbert's
somewhat jaded amusement (one day sufficed for him).

And with the end of June came the end of our Hampstead
home — so short-lived ; so often regretted. Now, after long
years, I wish with all my heart that we had never given it up.
But we left it almost without a sigh, so much did we dread the
thought of a second winter of our discontent, with all its attend-
ant ills. Our pretty " furniture and effects " were warehoused
— thereby out-Harroding Harrod — while we light-heartedly
packed our trunks and set out for Scotland. There was not
time for the Engadine again — and Braemar was suggested as
the nearest approach to Switzerland's revivifying qualities.
So to Braemar we journeyed — Herbert, Viola, her governess
and I. It is recorded of poor little Viola that " she spoilt
Mother and Daddy's holiday "—a terrible indictment ! But,
in truth, she developed an extraordinary capacity for naughti-
ness, unsuspected, unprecedented and unrepeated. And, indeed,
during a fortnight of incessant rain, how could one expect a
little child, to whom butterflies and birds'-eggs were life (and
many a death), to enjoy long tramps by silver stream-paths
between purple mountains, amid angry skies, albeit sublime
with shifting light and colour ? Our stay was not prolonged
beyond the prescribed fortnight — and the rest of our July was
spent in Norfolk — at North Repps, a poppied two miles from
the sea. We had a lovely little house, covered with honey-
suckle, and a garden full of lilies and pansies. Both here and
in Scotland, Herbert* was hard at work — and how he revelled
in it ! — studying Hamlet. I had learnt to love the play in my
girlhood, so that it was a joy and never a gene (as with many
another part he had to learn !) to hear him his words. Herbert
admired Irving 's Hamlet enormously ; had no criticisms
against it ; and boasted that he had seen it twenty times (this
was before he and I had met). His familiarity with Irving's
methods did but make his own enthusiasm the greater ; but
again I say that Herbert (perhaps it was a proof of genius,
perhaps it was a fault) concerned himself only with learning the
words of a part, however great. Master — or assistant-master
—of those, he acted them in spite of himself. In all his life

HERBERT AND I G3

I have never known him " study " in the general acceptance of
the word. So, sitting on the sands, lying on the cliffs, smoking
in the clematis arbour, his Hamlet took form — and little Viola
soon began to suck in the honey of the music words, as she
heard them declaimed to sea and sky.

Relegating her to a little house we took at Sittingbourne —
an Elizabethan cottage in the heart of a nut-wood, called Queen-
Down Warren — we started on our tour, beginning on August ist
at Dublin. The now-famous Dancing Girl was, of course, the
piice de resistance, with Julia Neilson, Fred Terry, Lionel Brough
and Fred Kerr, as in London ; while I was given the part of
Sybil Creyke, the lame girl, which had been created and made
momentous by Rose Norreys. It did not suit me in the least ;
but I was delighted to be included in so brilliant an entertain-
ment, which was received with ovations wherever we went.
Sybil Creyke, of course, has to clamber down the great staircase,
in spite of her lameness, just at the moment when the Duke,
bent on suicide, raises the poison to his lips. I accomplished
this feat perhaps a hundred times, but never without an agony
of dread, lest I should not get there in time to place my restrain-
ing hand upon his. What would have happened had I, one night,
failed to reach the Duke who, but for me, was a dead man ? No
doubt Herbert would have invented some way of saving him-
self ; but it is the kind of terror that makes one " scream
suddenly in the night." Apropos of this, Herbert used to tell
an actor's story of a villain whom it was necessary to dispatch
by a shot through the bars of the window that he was forcing.
No shot was forthcoming, however, and yet he had to die — and
rather than fail the situation, he cried, " My God ! I have
swallowed the file ! " fell dead, and saved the play.

But The Dancing Girl paled its ineffectual fire before the
glowing adventure of Hamlet. On this our thoughts and hearts
were fixed ; and it came into being during the second week of
our fortnight in Manchester. Although October, it was summer
weather ; and, stifled in the hotel, we took a furnished house with
a garden on the outskirts of the town. We sent for our own ser-
vants, and, of course, for Viola. Mr. Henschel came to stay with
us — Mr. Henschel, who wrote the lovely overture and incidental

HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

music for Herbert's Hamlet. It was a divine time — that time of
getting ready — for, however long the rehearsals, one could never
tire ; with such words to repeat ; such material to manipulate ;
such enthusiasm as Herbert's to lead one on. Sheer love of my
task enabled me to glide into Ophelia with no other guide than
that love. I had never known such joy in acting. September
9th was the date of the production. I find only one entry in
my Diary for all that autumn : "A great day in our lives-
Herbert plays Hamlet for the first time and with enormous
success." Would that I had recorded more ! But I remember
it as a dream of happiness — of congratulation — of that sen-
sation of walking-on-air, which comes of joy and security after
agonies of apprehension.

There can never have been a Hamlet and Ophelia who so
reverently, so almost religiously, gloried in their parts. For
many and many a night, both in the Manchester trial-run and
afterwards in London, it was my delight to sit in the wings and
watch Herbert's Hamlet — which was so far more beautiful,
more scholarly, more " Royal Dane " than was allowed him,
even by the most enthusiastic of his critics. It was indeed a
thing of beauty and the remembrance of it a joy for ever. With
what passionate delight he merged his individuality (not so
unlike Hamlet's own) into that of the sweet Prince ! — A sweeter
never was sung by flights of angels to his rest.

fsvcl -

su^sJ: CI

CffV*t- *«w££.

[By permission of Messrs. Novello & Co.

I have said that Herbert did not " study " Hamlet in the
actor's sense, but he made profound study of the character of
Hamlet : ever striving actually to get inside the mind of Shake-
speare (Shakespeare, as we know, was Herbert's Angel) : for
he believed, and probably rightly, that in painting Hamlet the
Poet drew himself.

HERBERT AND I 65

In October, 1891, this, Herbert's second provincial tour,
reached its end, intensely to my regret, for it had been full of
excitement, adventure and success. Herbert must have loved
it too, for he spent some of his happiest hours with the lifelong
friends that he made. Of these, the distinguished society of
Dr. Mahaffy and Mr. Edward Dowden were necessarily of
supreme interest to him, and many delightful hours were spent
over the absorbing topic of Shakespeare — the idol of all three.

In Manchester, the late Mr. Broadfield was our constant friend.
He had the simplest and sweetest of natures, combined with
a very powerful intellect ; every moment spent in his company
was of value and enjoyment, and he remained our honoured
friend until he died.

This tour was made iridescent with the weavings of romance.
Fred Terry and Julia Neilson had loved one another since they
had met as lover and heroine in Comedy and Tragedy, but it
was not until this autumn that, either breaking down or defying
opposition, they married. By this time, having begun with
no such tender tendencies towards her, I had learnt to love and
admire Julia, had learnt to know the large and lovely amiability
of her disposition, her steadfastness and loyalty. Her spirit
was as lovely as her face ; she was grand of heart as of person.
Her marriage was more or less of an elopement, and I was more
or less in their confidence. Does she remember, I wonder, bring-
ing to my dressing-room a little ruby heart, as a token of
gratitude for sympathy ? Well, Fred Terry and Julia Neilson
married, and in October Herbert reopened the Haymarket
Theatre with The Dancing Girl. It had all the old success
because of the happy-ever-after love affair, for Julia and Fred
were already adored of their audiences.

Except for Queen-Down Warren we were homeless this
autumn : lodgings in Cadogan Place, a flat in Mount Street : —
but wherever I lived I trod on air, for I had nothing in the world
to grieve or vex me. All Herbert's friends were my friends ;
the theatre, whether or no I acted, seemed mine as much as
his. I sang my existence away ; sang, house-hunted, devised
clothes, collected furniture, read a little, laughed incessantly —
had a silly habit of pirouetting through life. I write of what I

66 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

did, or rather did not do, on purpose to acquit myself of any
claim to all that Herbert was quietly achieving. " You take
things so lightly," was his gentle comment, his severest reproof.
But he marvelled at the unconquerable rebound of what I called
my india-rubber ball of a heart.

CHAPTER III

In the winter of 1891 we lighted upon a little house — 77,
Sloane Street — which was destined to be our home for ten years.
It was supposed to be a fairly cheap undertaking, because of the
misleading words, " Rent without premium." This advantage
soon disappeared under the iron hand and itching palm of the
builder and decorator. Electric light was still somewhat of a
departure (I find the Haymarket programme of this date making
this alluring feature: "Theatre lighted by electricity!"), but
yy, Sloane Street, soon saw it expensively installed, while I ran-
sacked old shops for fittings, and found, indeed, some lovely
ones — one pretty little old chandelier is in the Royal Room at
His Majesty's to this day. Then our dining-room of white
wood, our green drawing-room, and our blue drawing-room, our
rooms, Viola's rooms — all were sweet and dainty ; but your

bill, Mr. A , whose taste was so unerring and exacting, hung

long and heavy on our hands, though I fear that its burden
weighed more seriously on your mind than on ours ! Herbert
liked the little house, and was proud of its prettiness. Five-
o'clock dinner, and always enough supper for three or four
after the theatre : these were ministered to us by charming
servants. Are we not both for ever grateful to you, Sarah
Sisterson (Dinah Morris in face, form and disposition), Ellen
Weeks and dear, incomparable Mrs. Browning ?

Sir Charles Dilke was our landlord and our next-door neigh-
bour, but though we used to hear regularly at nine every morning
the awe-striking clash of swords as he practised his invariable
fencing, we did not know him. It was Viola who eventually began
our friendship with him and Lady Dilke — a friendship we trea-
sured to remember. A high wall separated our gardens, and one
day Viola clambered up in search of some ball, kite or animal that
had escaped her. Her vaulting ambition o'erleapt itself, for

67 5*

68 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

she was found (he always declared) hanging by her stocking
from a nail on Sir Charles Dilke's side of the wall. He rescued
her, and she was promptly invited to learn fencing. So, later
on, was I, but, " I am no fighter, sir," and the glinting rapiers
frightened me out of my wits. Herbert used to ride with Sir
Charles, and we used to go to delightful parties at their house
— interesting, political, with stories of Napoleon, Bismarck and
Parnell (did we meet — could we have met Parnell there ?). At
one luncheon-party there was Colonel Saunderson. He went in
terror of his life at that time, because of Fenian ill-feeling against
him. He lived in Sloane Street, a few doors from our house (this
is the story of another of Viola's escapades). He described at
luncheon how the treacherous enemy had lately contrived a deadly
plot against him by the devilish introduction through his study
window of certain death in the form of a poisonous adder. As
his story proceeded, Herbert and I looked at one another, half
in dismay, half in merriment, and it easily transpired that
" the poisonous adder " was a grass-snake, one of Viola's pets,
which had escaped from our window, been searched for and
mourned, and which we now learned had come to an undeserved
and tragic end. " One more injustice to Ireland," was Herbert's
comment.

While I burrowed in a groove of painters, glaziers and candle-
stick makers, Herbert was intent on larger ideas — " widening the
skirts of light " — every day growing in influence and authority.

He was becoming more and more popular as actor, man and
manager, and his sayings and doings were much recorded and
commented upon. I find one letter of his on the question of
Music Halls versus Theatres which, in the light of these latter
days, may not be without interest. Sir Henry Irving wrote as
follows :

" To the Editor of the Daily Telegraph.

" Sir,

' Regarding your remarkable leader of to-day, I trust
that it is not out of place to ask whether in any legislation for
the consolidation of laws relating to places of amusement it is
necessary to change the conditions under which theatres have
hitherto received their licences, and further, whether it is

HERBERT AND I 69

necessary that, even if for structural purposes theatres and music-
halls have to be considered together, they should be held in the
eye of the law as having a common aim and object. Surely,
whatever powers the London County Council may be granted,
should there not be from first to last a distinct position reserved
to theatres, which are the necessary homes of what we hold to
be Art ? I do not mean for a moment to speak with disrespect
of music-halls or music-hall artistes, but I must claim for
theatres and actors a distinct purpose and place for them in
the civic and State economy.

" In the Parliamentary Commission of 1866 it was shown
that the great difference between theatres and music-halls was
that in the former the play was the chief attraction, the refresh-
ment saloons being merely for the convenience of the public
attending the play. But if music-halls be allowed to play pieces
of forty minutes long, a deteriorating change will probably take
place with regard to many theatres. The plays thus limited
will, by a very natural process, be lengthened, as, for instance,
in the olden days plays were frequently divided by songs,
recitations and dances between the acts. If managers of such
places have the privilege of theatres without sacrificing their
liberty of smoking during the performance, or of serving drink
in the auditorium, a good many theatre managers will ultimately,
under temptation of gain and strain of competition, find it to
their monetary advantage to turn their theatres into houses for
the performance of plays where smoking and drinking will be
encouraged — an evil system of which the theatre proper is at
present the antidote.

" I speak in this matter without any personal concern what-
ever, for to me and certain other managers any such change in
the law will make no difference. We shall continue to conduct
our theatres as we have done, with the purpose and the hope of
sustaining and advancing the art of acting and all that sur-
rounds it — a purpose and hope in which the public has ever
encouraged us. It is for the future that I speak when I ask
the public to pause till they settle the question. Is the sug-
gested change a wise one, leading to a good end ?

" I am, sir, your obedient servant,
" Lyceum Theatre, February 23rd. Henry Irving."

70 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

Upon the same subject, but in far more fiery a strain, follows
Herbert's letter — and how he escaped with his life after its
publication baffles conjecture.

" To the Editor of the Daily Telegraph.

" Sir,

" ' Any attempt to turn the public-house into a theatre
would end in turning the theatre into a public-house.' These
words were spoken by a manager of great shrewdness and enter-
prise. ' And,' he added, ' I, for one, shall — if the new County
Council Bill passes — give a theatrical entertainment during the
winter, and turn my theatre into a music-hall during the rest
of the year.'

" The County Council, having become discredited, and
dreading perhaps the united influence of the Licensed Victuallers
(a society perfectly organized and wielding practically unlimited
powers), has thrown to that body a sop by giving the music-
halls carte blanche in matters of entertainment. All distinctions
between theatres and music-halls are, we are told, to be removed.
As Mr. Irving and Mr. Hare have pointed out, the theatres have,
by their own efforts, unaided by the State, gained for themselves
a not unenviable position, and it is now proposed to remove
by one stroke the work built up by many years of earnest striving.
Of course, there are among us those who will refuse to howl with
the wolves and bleat with the lambs. There are managers
who will decline to conduct their theatres on the lines of music-
halls ; but these theatres must inevitably go to the wall, as they
could not in the long run compete with those rivals who derived
their chief income from the sale of intoxicating drinks. The
character of the entertainment would, of necessity, deteriorate,
and the rising generation would practically be excluded from the
education which a well-conducted theatre may claim to supply.
Thus, both the ethics and the aesthetics of our Art would be out-
raged. The County Council being largely composed of persons who
are not only not in sympathy with, but are absolutely opposed
to, the claims of Art, are disqualified from exercising over us
those unlimited powers which they would now usurp.

" The Lord Chamberlain has practically the power to veto

HERBERT AND I 71

any performance and to close any theatre at any moment. To
this autocracy no manager can object, for the Lord Chamber-
lain's office is administered by persons of culture, refinement
and responsibility. But were these powers transferred to the
tender mercies of the County Council, a condition of things
would arise which would be at once intolerable to managers and
irritating to the public.

" As an instance of the tactics pursued by the County
Council towards theatres, I may mention that, some time ago,
I received repeated complaints that the bolts on the doors of
the Haymarket Theatre did not meet the requirements of the
County Council. The bolts were, however, made on the very
pattern of the bolts approved by the County Council at five
new theatres. But still the County Council continued to per-
secute me with requisitions, and put me to much trouble and
expense. They finally threatened legal proceedings. Being by
this time exasperated, I determined to ignore their communi-
cations, and to allow them to proceed. I put the case before
my solicitors, and was advised to let the matter go into court.
It was planned that we should subpoena the entire body of
County Councillors in order to demonstrate in open court and
before the public the ignorance and unfitness of those entrusted
with the supervision of theatres. At the last moment, how-
ever, the Council declined to prosecute. The bolts remain ;
but I have received as yet no apology for the treatment to which
I was subjected. If in structural matters these arbiters of the
theatre are not all that could be desired, the mind shrinks from
the contemplation of their sway in the more abstract regions of
Art and taste.

"If we have not the advantage of State aid, let us at least
be exempt from a State suppression. The County Council may
have reckoned with its publican, but without its public.

" I remain, sir, your obedient servant,

" Herbert Beerbohm Tree.
" London, February 26th."

One wonders how these two eager and consistent upholders
of their Art — Irving and Tree — would have met the suggestion

72 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

of Trades-Unionism with regard to it — at least, one does not
wonder, one is absolutely sure.

A lecture he delivered in December at the Playgoers' Club
(Sir Squire Bancroft in the chair) caused no little stir. It is
amusing to note that Maeterlinck, in a contemporary paper,
is spoken of as "a young Flemish writer," etc., etc. " Some
Fallacies of the Modern Stage ' was afterwards embodied in
Herbert's book, " Thoughts and Afterthoughts." I remember
his composing it on one or two evenings after supper, for
midnight oil always soothed the troubled waters of his
imagination.

So punctuated with fun and pungent humour was Herbert's
lecture that one hardly knows whether he was admiring or
condemning the Maeterlinck and Ibsen whom he alternately
crowned and jumped on ; but his passionate admiration for The
Doll's House, The Enemy of the People (Dr. Stockmann almost
his favourite part) and The Master Builder is well known ; and
it was his fixed intention to produce Peer Gynt. As to Maeter-
linck, he loved every moment of L'Intruse, and one of the dis-
appointments of his life was that The Blue Bird did not come
his way for production. Although Herbert's judgment remained
always sane and evenly balanced, his expression was often
bewildering, because of the will-o'-the-wisp quality of his humour
and the unconquerable whimsicality of his wit.

Soon after the lecture, we gave an isolated performance of
L'Intruse at the Lyceum. It was an intense pleasure to us to
act and to perform, but it fell upon the unheeding ears of a
fashionable Charity Matinee audience, and made no great
effect.

On January 15th, 1892, The Dancing Girl reached its birth-
day, and though by no means had the sands of its popularity
run out, it was withdrawn. This was because Herbert's longing
to give London a taste of his Hamlet could no longer be stilled,
and, accordingly, on January 21st, it was produced. It evoked
volumes of criticism, oceans or praise, as it deserved, while,
apart from the Press, the public flocked with eagerness and
unbounded admiration to the new Hamlet.

The three months that followed were surely the happiest of

HERBERT AND I

my life, for I had more than my share of praise and applause.
I seem to have lived only " to strut and fret my hour upon the
stage," and that hour as Ophelia was Heaven. The only duty

Playgoers' Club.

[By permission ot " The Daily Graphic."

I set myself, as far as I can remember, was to take care that
the flowers I used in the Mad Scene were duly chosen and
delivered day by day — for nothing but real flowers would content
me, and the more beautiful they were, the more it pleased me to
toss them and tear them. This was not from cruelty to the

74 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

flowers, which I loved, but from an idea I had that the mad
would play with beauty and then destroy it. I wonder if our
good friends Sir Henry and Lady Lucy remember sending me
columbines from their sweet garden at Hythe ? ' There's rue
for you, and columbines."

Herbert, too, was happy the whole time that he was acting
Hamlet. He approached his task each night with love and
reverence, and his impersonation grew and grew in strength and
beauty. There was a girl, Ethel Webling, who came every
single night of the more than a hundred nights to draw him
while he was acting. She stood in the wings, one side or
another, with the result that there grew a wonderful book, the
text, as Herbert gave it, annotated by pen-and-ink sketches.
It is an exquisite piece of work, and it was, to the end of his
life, a delight to Herbert. We did not possess the original
one that Miss Webling made (would that we had !), but one
she copied from it for us, with, I think, rather fewer of her
marvellous drawings in it. Nevertheless, it is a thing of beauty
and a great treasure.

We were a delightful company of players : Rose Leclercq,
Henry Kemble (Polonius), James Fernandez (the Ghost), Fred
Terry (Laertes) and Arthur Dacre (Horatio). It was a beau-
tiful production, too — praised even by the severe Times — and
there was the continual delight of Henschel's music. I was so
intensely happy in the theatre that I wanted to make others
happy ; so every evening I used to assemble all the children
who appeared in the play, and hold a little court, half Bible
class, half literary society, in which I think we all revelled.
One of the little girls, Nellie Reid, adored us both, and long
afterwards wrote me letters of love and devotion. Alas ! she
perished in the Chicago Theatre fire — I believe through going
back in search of a comrade. (I forget the object of so many
children in Herbert's production of Hamlet, but there they
undoubtedly were.)

Hamlet ran its hundred happy nights, and then came to an
end, and Peril was put on, with Julia Neilson as the heroine,
and Herbert, of course, in a repetition of his famous Sir Wood-

t-i

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HERBERT AND I 75

bine Grafton success. A translation of Le Passant by Cotsford
Dick gave us a delicious little prelude to Peril in The Waif,
and I revelled and greatly admired myself in the part of Zanetto,
while flatterers — among them Sir Charles Wyndham— whispered
to me of Rosalind and Viola — dreams, never, alas ! to be
realized.

This programme seems to have filled up the summer season,
though at its very end Hamlet was revived, and I can quite
understand that Herbert did not want to close so eventful and
brilliant a year by appearing in the small, albeit inimitable pre-
sentment of the irascible Anglo-Indian Colonel. I remember
Herbert's speech on the last night, for in it he made special
mention of me as Ophelia — thereby with his own hands, as it
were, working up for me an ovation. Well did I call myself
that night, " Too happy, happy Tree."

This year Marienbad is chosen for our holiday, and thither
we repair, taking Viola and her nurse with us. Of the journey
all I remember is that at a certain hour in the early morning
Viola was to waken to see the castled Rhine, upon whose legends
she had been reared. When the time came, she utterly refused
to open her eyes or lift her head from the pillow, and so she saw
nothing. Herbert made a little teasing song, which recurred
at intervals during the whole of our holiday : ' She never
saw the Rhine, she never saw the Rhine, she never, never,"
etc., etc.

Herbert adored the life at Marienbad — so much so that for
ever afterwards it seemed to him the only indispensable and
immovable feast of the year. He entered into its regime, its
routine with infinite zest — was first in the early morning at
the Pump Room, or whatever it was called ; came back to
fetch lazy me for the walk through the woods to Waldmuhle
or Egerlande, where we breakfasted — sedulously took baths,
drank waters, drove, walked, dreamed in the pine-forest, wrote,
studied, made friends, lived and laughed and sang away in-
dustriously idle days. I never put on the proper spirit of
Marienbad ; those never do who are not up and out and drinking
waters when the morning hymn is sung. But I had an easy

76 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

and luxurious life ; read a thousand novels, basked in the woods,
watched Viola dance among the honey-scented pines, and closed
my eyes to her scientific destruction of lovely butterfly-life. I
went sometimes to the play or the opera (but Herbert liked
to go every night), slept much, and tried to learn German of
the multitudinous American visitors. But that first year of
our going there was long before Marienbad was sought after.
It was a little place, and the Griines Kreuz had the most delight-
ful rooms wherein to lodge — while the arbour of the Hotel Weimar
was a place wherein one dreamed away the eating hours.

On our return, after a very happy three weeks, we stayed
a night at Frankfort. At Cologne (mainly through Herbert's
perfect German, which for some extraordinary reason no German
official could understand), we missed all trains, all connections,
lost our luggage, stormed and raved, and finally altered our
homeward route. I recall this only because Viola and I delighted
to tease Herbert about his German which we alleged was too
good to be true.

Before we started on our autumn tour, all the plans were
put in being for Mr. Stuart Ogilvie's adaptation of Hypatia,
which was to be Herbert's winter production at the Haymarket.
Also Oscar Wilde brought us the scenario of A Woman of No
Importance, destined to prove such an amazing success.

In the autumn our provincial tour began no further afield
than Islington ; which reminds me of one of the few songs
(although as a boy he had a lovely chorister's voice) that Herbert
ever consented to sing in private life — this was ' The Bailiff's
Daughter of Islington " in French :

" II y avait un garcon,

Tres aimable et tres bon," etc., etc.

He sang it delightfully to the old tune which I, as a child of
four, had been stood upon a table to warble, gaining great
applause and many a prophecy by my pathetic rendering of
" She died, sir, long ago."

From Islington we went the usual round of towns ; finding
ourselves in the North, as I see by an isolated entry in my
diary : ' My birthday in Glasgow. Herbert gives me lovely
fur coat, girls give me silver arrow. Supper-party." ' The

HERBERT AND I 77

girls " were lovely, beloved Lily Hanbury and her sister Hilda.
Lily, one of the sweetest souls to grace the earth and leave
it all too soon, was the beautiful cousin of beautiful Julia
Neilson ; she came on tour with us to act the " Dancing Girl " in
Julia's stead. She was scarcely " out of her 'teens " — radiantly
handsome and gay, brimming with sympathy and affection, brim-
ming with talent and reciprocity. Herbert and I loved her
as she deserved loving.

It was in Glasgow that Oscar Wilde came to stay with us,
bringing us the completed manuscript of A Woman of No Im-
portance. This occupied three days of delighted listening,
planning, and — inevitable in his society — laughter, badinage,
partridges, oysters, champagne ; feasts of no particular reason,
flow of no memorable soul.

Once the play accepted, settled and practically cast, the
glamour of him as a guest palled a little, and I remember how
glad we were, Herbert and I, when some smart invitation recalled
him, and we were enabled to pursue the even tenor of our tour
— a tour which ended, as it began, in the environs of London.
' Stratford-atte-Bow " at the end of November, recalls dim
recollections of long journeys along the Whitechapel Road
in hansoms, and of turtle-soup at some famous eating-house
in the heart of the City on matinee days.

Thenceforward Herbert was engrossed in the rehearsals of
Hypatia and in the preparations for its beautiful production.
These brought us in close touch with Alma Tadema, who lent
us his genius, and with Sir Hubert Parry, who made the lovely
music for the play. It was many years later that Herbert's
production of Julius Ccesar excited the wonder and admiration
of the play-going world, but I doubt if that of Hypatia was less
astoundingly beautiful and complete. At all events, the same
master hand, that of Alma Tadema, was in a great measure
responsible for both.

Strenuous as were the rehearsals of Hypatia and manifold
the details of the production, Herbert yet found time to say and
do things outside the theatre. I venture to allude to one speech
he made, because it gives a clue to the intention which he realized
ten years later — his foundation of the now-flourishing Academy

78 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

of Dramatic Art in Gower Street. A society was formed, not
by Herbert himself, and short-lived, I am afraid, which seemed
to Herbert a foretaste of the good things he had in his mind.
Extracts from his speech at the inaugural meeting will show that
he was already advising in 1892 what he achieved on his own
account in 1904.

My idea is that an important department of this
Society might be a school — shall I call it a conservatoire ?
— in which the young actor and actress could acquire those
implements of their art, the want of which the playgoers
of to-day cannot but sometimes deplore in watching the
performances presented in our theatres. I mean a school
of fencing, dancing, and elocution. As for acting, that is
an affair of the imagination, and cannot be taught, but if
it cannot be taught it can be practised. It would be a
fallacy, I think, to maintain that acting is so precise a
science as are the arts of music and painting. Witness the
fact that most children are natural actors, and often as-
tonish one with the appropriateness of their gestures, the
genius of their exuberance. They are, in fact, untrammelled
by self-consciousness. We start from the garden of childish
confidence before we emerge into the promised land of
artistic maturity. Nowadays there is practically no re-
cruiting ground for the young actor, save that provided by
amateur clubs, and of those the full-fledged actor cannot
avail himself. The system of long runs which prevails
in our theatres renders it out of the question that young
actors and actresses can obtain in the theatres to which they
are attached that practice which is absolutely essential
to their artistic development. Such performances as the
projectors of the present scheme have in view would, of
course, afford those opportunities of which the rising genera-
tion stands sorely in need — those opportunities which in
former days were afforded by stock companies throughout
the kingdom.

But to return to the question of a conservatoire, or dra-
matic academy. Efforts have been made before now to
establish such an institution ; those efforts, however, have

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3 3

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HERBERT AND I 79

hitherto not been successful. But many things are possible
to-day which were not possible ten years ago. I am confident
that there is a larger contingent of our young actors and
young actresses who would avail themselves of the oppor-
tunity of acquiring, as it were, the tools of their craft, if
they could be purchased at a reasonable rate. There are,
of course, many teachers of elocution, there are many
fencing masters, there are numberless dancing academies,
but it would be a considerable boon if a recognized school,
at which the various teachable branches of theatrical art
were taught, could be established.

Hypatia ran its hundred nights, a lovely play exquisitely
acted by a company headed by Herbert, Julia Neilson, Fred Terry,
Henry Kemble, Olga Brandon, Lewis Waller and James Fer-
nandez. By the way, there is no Issachar the Jew in Kingsley's
novel ; Mr. Ogilvie introduced the character, probably fore-
seeing the great character-study in which Herbert's impersona-
tion resulted. There was naturally no part for me in Hypatia,
although I pleaded with tears for that of Ruth. It would not
have suited me, and Olga Brandon acted it to perfection. But
it used to please me to make my moan by emerging from my
disused dressing-room, which was kept sacred to me, and by
sitting on a certain bridge connecting the Suffolk Street house
with the stage. There I used to exult in my grief by watching
the lovely play, and by greeting (with careful traces of recent
weeping) Herbert, always genial, always sympathetic, as he
returned between the acts. How kind he was ! How indulgent
to my grievances ! How eager to atone when in reality I had
nothing whatever to grumble about !

The year, 1893, was a year of marvellous summer ; I
remember it well, because I journeyed with Viola to Lyme Regis
in the middle of March, and the train-guard said : " We have
had eight hours of sunshine on this line for a week." It seems
to me that eight hours of sunshine grew to fourteen and lasted
from March to October — a " white muslin year " I called it, and
such as I had not known since childhood. Herbert came to
Lyme Regis while the theatre was closed the week before Easter,

80 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

and we all loved the little place. We had lodgings actually on
the beach, and between glinting wave and " rathe primrose "
we met Spring halfway in her triumphant march.

Soon after our return there were the rehearsals of A Woman
of No Importance. In this a delicious part was assigned to me ;
so there was no more wailing and gnashing of teeth. They were
delightful, those rehearsals. Every day we used to break off
and repair to the Continental Hotel, which was then a famous
place for lunch, and exactly the reverse, I believe, for supper.
Oscar Wilde, Comyns Carr, Herbert and I, and anyone whom
we happened to bring with us made a merry table — intellectual,
too, wit-sharpening and full of interest. I remember Oscar
Wilde telling us the plots of three short plays he had in his mind
— Salome, The Florentine Tragedy and La Sainte Courtisane,
almost writing them on the tablecloth as he glowed over his
themes.

The " Continental " was one of a long chapter of restaurants
resorted to almost daily according to the fancy of the man of
the moment or the play of the moment that most influenced
Herbert. Blanchard's in New Burlington Street (on rich days)
had an early vogue — and we commandeered the pleasant
bow- window table that looked down upon the happy va et vient
of Regent Street (of course, over the hors d'ceuvres I was the
Lady of Shalott). On poor days, we descended to Blanchard's
in Beak Street, where a " cut from the joint " took the place
of Canard d la presse. (I remember Herbert's delight when
I stigmatized a glaringly untruthful newspaper poster as a
' Canard a la Press.") Herbert liked the chariots of lamb
and salmon that were victoriously driven up to one's plate at
Simpson's. Here humour took the place of allure, and Herbert
must, even in eating, be allured or amused, or his capricious
appetite failed him. At one time we used to go to Verrey's
every single day for many weeks, when old Mr. Verrey himself
used to wait upon us at sleepy, unwaiterous hours. This was
during Mr. Godwin's production of Dr. Todhunter's Oenone at
Hengler's Circus in Argyle Street. Mr. Godwin chose " this
wooden O ' for his lovely production, so that one could
catch the real spirit of the Greek drama — its wreathed spectators,
its moving chorus. Herbert did not act in it, but he taught

HERBERT AND I 81

me to act Oenone, and he lived in every moment of this emanation
of Godwin's genius for the art of the stage.

A Woman of No Importance, with Mrs. Bernard Beere as
the heroine, was, as it deserved to be, an amazing success.
Produced at the end of April, it ran all through the summer,
and only came to an end in September because a date had been
fixed for the production of Mr. Henry Arthur Jones's play.

Meanwhile Herbert was swimming triumphantly on the top
of a victorious wave : had become a Man of Great Importance :
was sought after, feted and quoted. As a contemporary says :

" Imagination and the Play

" Mr. Beerbohm Tree, the famous actor-manager of the
Haymarket Theatre, has been the recipient of an honour which
we believe is unique — that is to say, has never been offered to
any other player. The Royal Institution authorities have
invited him to appear at the noted Albemarle Street Hall ; not
in his function of performer, but in that of essayist. Mr. Tree
is to read a paper on ' The Imaginative Faculty in its Relation to
the Drama.' He is a scholar of some attainments and a thinker
of some originality as well as a splendid actor, and those who
have the good fortune to hear him will have a rich intellectual
treat. The honour done to Mr. Tree by the invitation is a striking
testimony to the rapidity of the growth of interest in England in
the finer questions affecting the drama, as well as to the increasing
recognition of the culture and versatility of the leading players
on the British stage."

I had no holiday, being too happy in my part to care to
give it up ; but Herbert went with Viola to Westgate, of all
places in the world. There there was a little coterie of Mrs.
Patrick Campbell, Haddon Chambers and his wife, and, I think,
the Comyns Carrs, making music and laughter to their hearts'
content. I remember coming one Sunday and feeling rather
glum, as one always does in a world that has gone beyond one.
Haddon Chambers was writing his play J ohn-o' -Dreams, which
Herbert was to produce with Mrs. Patrick Campbell as its heroine,

82 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

and the air was full of plans and visions shut out from me, a mere
Peri at the gate of Paradise. But I forgot to be disconsolate
when in one dreamy July midnight we put out in a wide sailing-
boat upon a still and silver sea. There Mr. Haddon Chambers,
who, to many varied accomplishments, added the pretty trick
of manning a schooner, sang with the sailors snatches of old
chanties — rhythmical sea-songs with incoherent choruses :
" Blow, blow, blow the man down, Give me a penny to blow
the man down." I hear their voices now, echoing over a waste
of waters. Westgate vanished, the Beach Hotel was the Doge's
Palace glimmering across the dark lagoon. Indeed, Tosti's
Venetian Boat-Song formed an appropriate part of the concert
contributed to by us all.

Herbert loved Tosti — Tosti of keen wit, of infinite mirth and
humour. He thought him the best company in the world : so
he was ! And his music ! Shall one ever forget hearing him
accompany Melba in " Good-bye " ? Shall one ever forget an
evening party at Mrs. Alfred Darby's (sister of Sir George Arthur,
that charming friend of all our married life). Princess Mary
(Duchess of Teck), that royal lady of historic brilliance and
goodness and wit and charm, was there — always a great friend
of Herbert, who delighted her because he made her laugh ;
and " Mattinata " was sung for the first time, Tosti accompany-
ing it. Enchanting memory — I shall always think " Mattinata "
the loveliest ballad ever written.

During the whole of August, Herbert was hard at work
over the ambitious production of The Tempter, a romance of
the days of Henry IV. Chaucer and Goethe would seem to
have combined to supply Henry Arthur Jones with his theme,
" Faust " and " The Canterbury Tales " struggled for mastery in
the plot's unfolding. The Woes had it. Herbert's part, prac-
tically Mephistopheles, appealed to him strongly ; it was
glamorous, daring, lurid, with an immense amount of red fire,
blue limelight, and phosphorescent effects ; but I doubt if his
performance, though clever and fantastic, was memorable.
The play, written partly in prose, partly in poetry, if it did not
add to the great reputation of the famous author of Judah, The
Middleman, The Dancing Girl and The Liars (exquisite comedy

Col. Newcome.
By permission oj " Punch."]

Narcisse.
[By permission ot " The Illustrated Sporting and

Dramatic News.

84 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

of which Sheridan might have been proud), yet had a considerable
run and was a sensational success. As the unhappy lovers —
" two halcyons tempest-tossed " — Julia Neilson and Fred Terry
gave really fine and lovely, effects. I remember how wonderfully
beautiful was their death-scene, both in writing and interpreta-
tion— a scene I used to watch every night, and always it moved
me to tears.

The little waiting-maid, by the bye, was acted by Irene
Vanbrugh (her first part, I think), who, scarcely more than a
child, instantly won all hearts and has kept them forever.

The year closed somewhat gloomily : for The Tempter, in
spite of its success, was too expensive and over-peopled a pro-
duction to spell money-making. It ended, and a short revival
of Captain Swift filled in the few weeks while Herbert was re-
hearsing The Charlatan by Robert Buchanan. This, a pretty
enough play, gave Herbert a part, eerie, poetic, half-villain,
half-hero, such as only an Irving or a Tree could enact. It
recalled several of his brilliant successes : Macari, the Duke of
Guisebury, Captain Swift and Hamlet ; being compounded of,
and yet distinctive from them all ; the kind of performance
which in a highly-successful play would have become historic.
I was given the wonderful part of the heroine, and was allowed
to sing " Der Asra " of Rubinstein to Lily Hanbury's accom-
paniment (how did I dare ?). It was appropriate to the situa-
tion and to the characters. Isabel (my part) was the Princess,
Philip Woodville (Herbert's) the slave — who daily grew pale and
more pale for love of her. There were the elements but not
the accomplishment of a fine drama in The Charlatan.

After two or three months' run, this play gave place to Once
Upon a Time. This was Herbert's happy title of a poetic comedy
by Louis Parker, founded on Hans Andersen's " The Emperor's
New Clothes." It was an exquisite piece of work, owing its
complete failure to two mistakes. First and foremost, Once
Upon a Time was in advance of its day ; had it been produced
fifteen years later, and had Herbert cast himself for the part
of Omar, the magician, instead of that of the vainglorious King,

HERBERT AND I 85

a different fate would have awaited it. As it was, a disastrous
run of about three weeks plunged me into despair (since mine
was one of the most charming parts I had ever been given,
and my success in it abnormal), while bitter disappointment
and chagrin (for he loved the play) did but nerve Herbert to
new effort, new venture. It was then that I and those who
watched and loved him christened him the Splendid Loser :
a fine reputation nobly earned and lived up to. On perhaps
the third night of the play, when he and I had struggled through
our parts to an all-but-empty house, we came home to Sloane
Street to a supper which certainly should have consisted of
bitter herbs. Not at all : I can see Herbert now, as he paused
over his meal and leaned his head upon his hand — " I wonder if
Grundy has anything," he mused. Nowadays we should have
' rung him up " : that night we hailed a hansom, past midnight
though it was, and drove to Sydney Grundy's house in Kensing-
ton. A light in his study window assured us he was up and
working, and we were scarcely admitted before he showed us a
comedy, by miracle ready and admirably suited to Herbert's
need. A Bunch of Violets was read to us then and there, and
instantly accepted, Herbert and the author casting the play
as the pages were turned. The part of the hero was as though
written for Herbert ; that of the wife as though written for
Lily Hanbury ; Lionel Brough, Holman Clark (already acting
in poor, doomed Once Upon a Time) sprang to our imaginations
as the only actors for various parts. But there was one bril-
liantly-written character of an adventuress which gave Herbert
pause. " Whom on earth," he asked ruefully, with a lack-lustre
eye, " can we get for Mrs. Murgatroyd ? ' ' There sits the only
actress who can play it," said Mr. Grundy, pointing his pipe
at me — at amazed and incredulous me.

We left the pleasant, book-lined room in Addison Road in the
small hours of a March morning, having lighted upon one of the
greatest of Herbert's successes ; while I had been accorded one
of the three great chances of my theatrical career. The play
was put into rehearsal the very next day, and was produced
less than a fortnight after Herbert's happy inspiration. Never
did there fall from the sky greater good-luck. The play was an
instant success, both artistically and financially. Herbert's

86 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

part, Sir Philip Marchant, was a new departure : a man of iron
— cold, hard, cynical — with yet one stream of passionate warmth
and love deep down in his nature : his adoration of his only
daughter. The character gave splendid scope and opportunity,
and the result was one of his finest performances. He was very
proud of my almost sensational success as the dreadful Mrs.
Murgatroyd, especially as it followed with startling contrast
the part of Rita, the peasant child in Once Upon a Time, in which
Herbert was pleased to call my acting "perfect." I must be
forgiven for speaking of a pronouncement so dear to my re-
membrance.

May, June and July were filled up with a great many gaieties
for me, and such as his work allowed him for Herbert. A supper-
club called " The Amphitryon " came into being, and many
a party was given for us or by us there. The Grosvenor Gallery
parties occurring every week, I think, were a delightful rendez-
vous ; and we were entertained every Sunday either at dinner or
for the week-end. Delightful week-ends they were, too — at
Wilton, at Panshanger, at Taplow Court, at Ashridge, and, most
memorable of all, at Hatfield. There, with royal fellow-visitors,
we spent an adorable Saturday to Monday in July. Dear, great
Lord Salisbury — for whom one had with the rest of the world a
deep hero-worship — you spent an hour alone with Herbert and me,
showing us the house and its manifold, luminous, illumining
treasures : and you, Lady Salisbury, witty, wise, of divine man-
ners ; you, who had an affectionate admiration of Herbert's
humour and genius — you showered your great and simple
friendship of hospitality on us. Sweet and ever-to-be-remembered
two days of memorable hours !

One visit to Taplow Court tells its own story, in this little
letter from Lady Desborough, which came in answer to one
of mine asking her the date of her " coming-out " ball. For
it was at this, when she was Miss Ethel Fane, and engaged to
Mr. Willie Grenfell, that we first saw her ; and Herbert, without
even speaking to her, fell down straight at her feet. He thought
her the loveliest thing he had ever seen : and later on, when he
came to know her, he learnt to think her the wittiest and rarest
being he had ever met :

HERBERT AND I 87

" Taplow Court,

" Taplow, Bucks.

" April 17th, 1919.
" My dear Lady Tree,

"It was such a great and true pleasure to get your
dear letter — it called up so many happy days. And very, very
well I remember the first time that you and Sir Herbert came
here, in the early summer of 1891. Oscar Wilde was here, and
I remember him stepping in mid-river from my punt to the
one you were in with Willie — with heavy oscillations — and your
delicious greeting to him, ' Welcome, little stranger ! ' Do you
remember ? — and a good game that we played in the evening,
invented, I think, by my uncle Francis : — an imaginary letter
from a woman thanking a man for flowers when she wasn't
quite certain whether he'd sent them or not ! Yours began,
' Roses, roses everywhere.'

" There was a ball at St. James's Square in 1889, and one
in 1 89 1 — but my ' coming-out ' ball was, alas ! in 1885 (we
were married in 1887).

" I was so deeply touched by what you said about Sir Herbert,
and so intensely pleased.

" It is strange how increasingly vivid the early years be-
come as the milestones grow ever quicker — it is one of the
great joys. I often think of the Browning words : ' If I hold
the past so firm and fast, Shall I doubt if the future hold I can ? '

" Yours with love,
(Signed) " Ettie Desborough."

This year our summer holiday began at Spa, where Viola
and I were left while Herbert went on to his beloved Marienbad.
As long as he stayed with us we were entrancingly amused :
Julius and Evelyn Beerbohm were there, and Clara Butt — a
grand creature of eighteen splendid summers. At the feet of
this goddess both Herbert and Julius fell prone, and a deadly
rivalry raged merrily between the two brothers. One day, in
an evil hour, one overheard the other promising to send " the
divine Clara " an armful of roses. But when the time came
for the fulfilment of this fragrant purpose, lo ! the town had
been ransacked at dawn and every single flower had been bought

88 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

up and already presented by the rival brother. Not a single
blossom remained for the discomfited Julius (or Herbert, I
forget which ; but I rather think Herbert, who substituted some
witty symbol for the lost posy).

There were picnics and batailles-de-fleurs , and the insidious
allure (to me, not to Herbert) of the gaming-tables. Julius,
who happened to be rich at that moment, was the gaming-table
king ; and I remember how Herbert used to watch him, in
horror and amazement mingled with fascinated admiration, as
he held the bank while onlookers held their breath.

Julius and Evelyn's only son, " young Evelyn," was about
Viola's age, and here at Spa, as in the long Sloane Street gardens,
as in the Kentish nut woods, these two intrepid cousins were
inseparable over the tops and tadpoles of their happy youth.
Later on Evelyn became the wonder and the hero of those
young-eyed cherubim, Felicity and Iris, and the fascination
of Herbert, who rejoiced in his incessant and ebullient humour.

Alternately as he was Fortune's favourite or Fortune's fool,
Evelyn rode to hounds, drove four-in-hand, joined a smart
Hussar regiment, or pursued a precarious existence upon the
stage. But whatever he undertook he did magnificently and
in a magnificent way. So he died magnificently commanding his
Battery at Polygon Wood. The outbreak of war had given
him the career he had always longed for. At first his commission
was in his boyhood's regiment, the 3rd Hussars, then a Cap-
taincy in the 12th Lancers, a Majority in the Royal Field
Artillery, a Staff appointment in German East Africa, home
again for the " big push " of 1917, and then his death, two
months after that of his Uncle Herbert whom he had so looked
up to and so loved.

On our return from Spa, there was the usual provincial tour,
easily recalled this year because, while we were in Edinburgh,
we were " commanded " to give a performance at Balmoral. I
rejoice to think that Herbert had audience and speech with great
Queen Victoria, who embodied — shall we say concealed ? — in her
gentle touch, her sweet voice, her simple personality, the power,
wisdom and might of England.

In December our second daughter arrived, and we called her

Photo by]

VIOLA AND FELICITY.

[Window & Grove.

HERBERT AND I 89

Felicity. That word, in Arabic, was graven on an amulet I
found for Herbert at Juliano's pretty shop, declaring that
while he wore it happiness would stay with him. Great happi-
ness came to us, at all events, with the new baby's advent,
and Herbert gave me her lovely name wrought in diamonds for
my Christmas present. But when she was but five weeks old
we had to absent us from Felicity awhile, leaving her and Viola
with a crowd of devoted aunts, nurses and well-wishers, as we
started forth on our first American tour.

CHAPTER IV

We left for New York in January, 1895. It was a blessed
voyage. The greater part of Herbert's company had travelled a
week sooner than we ; therefore our party comprised only our-
selves, Max Beerbohm and Lionel Brough. The latter twain,
while yet the ship was lying at anchor outside Queenstown har-
bour, disappeared from view and were never seen again until they
were landed upon the quay at New York. Thus, for the first
time for many years, I had Herbert completely to myself. To
me this was a return of the golden age, and I appreciated and
loved every hour of that eight days' journey. Herbert in no way
succumbed to the horrors of a sea voyage ; but the dread of
something after each heave and roll of the liner kept him
chastened and subdued ; wistfully inclined to be waited upon
and looked after, so that it made Heaven for her who had fretted
under his more mercurial and elusive moods. How I adored
and looked back upon the long-drawn days of that week ! Days
that never came again, though something very near them was
the last fortnight of his life. I reminded him then how,

remembering my " /ur^iva vofxi^tr evrv\eiv 7rp"iv av Ouvy," 1

had tried to put into Greek, " Call no wife happy until she has
her husband safe under a linseed poultice." This passion to
monopolize, " this fever of the mind, this jealousie," does it
most resemble love or hatred in its egotism ?

The ship we travelled by was fuller of luxuries than of pas-
sengers, and it seemed to belong entirely to us — to Herbert and
me. Ah ! the hours slipped by too quickly. Nothing hap-
pened except endless relays of food and long, lazy afternoons
on fur-bedizened deck-chairs : a shoal of porpoises, a shadow
on the horizon that called itself an iceberg, and at last one
morning something gleaming in the early sunlight — the Statue

HERBERT AND I 91

of Liberty at the entrance to New York harbour. These were
the excitements and the finale of that dream- week. Eheu !
Immediately a crowd of reporters, who arrived in a galley and
clambered up the ship's side, surrounded Herbert, elbowed me
out of existence and blotted out my pageant. I was discovered
in our state-room weeping among our boxes, because my happy,
cherished hours were over. Herbert dried my tears and promised
me that everything should come again ; but it never did.

Herbert was, as it were, borne off upon the shoulders of
the press-gang, and I saw him no more until we were established
in our hotel — the best that New York boasted in those days,
breathing Versailles, the Winter Palace and the Vatican : replete
with more civilized warfare against time, space and eternity
than could be compassed in a miser's dream. One felt curiously
like Marie Antoinette in her glorious days — it was the hotel
made one feel it — but like Marie Antoinette in a hurry. One
was striving day and night to recapture lost time, lost trains,
lost opportunities, lost empires : lost everything that one could
lose, if one did not make haste— breathless, frantic haste. One
was never late, never early, yet one was always rushing, always
seeking, with one's mind racked, one's senses on tiptoe — one's
very dreams a whirlwind.

We found our rooms rioting in flowers, and we revelled in the
great bunches of Parma violets, the great sheaves of American
Beauty roses, the giant cyclamens, the forests of lilies-of-the-
valley. Among the first to greet us with posy-laden hands
were Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, then at the zenith of their enormous
popularity in America. Mrs. Kendal and Herbert had kindred
wits, and, once together, they lighted one another's humour
into a blaze. We were much feted, the Four Hundred as well
as the Four Thousand opening its doors to us for lunches, dinners,
suppers and balls. On the very night of our arrival we were
taken to the Opera {Lohengrin, with Jean de Reszke). It was
the height of the New York season, and the beauty, the clothes,
and the tiaras glittering on every graceful head seemed to
make Covent Garden pale its ineffectual fire. After about ten
days of ceaseless gaieties, we began our acting, Herbert wisely
choosing The Ballad-Monger and The Red Lamp for his first
night. The contrast of the starveling poet Gringoire and the

92 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

cat-footed, dropsical Demetrius, and the impossibility of finding
the man Tree in either part, caused New York, in its critics' par-
lance, to sit up — to stand and deliver an ovation ; and when
A Bunch of Violets, Hamlet and Falstaff followed one another
in nightly succession, one cannot wonder that Herbert's acting
became the rage. I, too, was praised, and I will not say unduly,
for I, too, in the Princess Morakoff, Mrs. Murgatroyd, Ophelia
and Mrs. Ford, had parts which at all events proved my
versatility.

When we had been acting about a week, there happened a
great Charity Matinee at Washington, and it was arranged
that Herbert and I and a few of his company should travel to
the capital during the night, appear in a scene from Hamlet
at noon, and return to New York in time for our evening per-
formance. This is what man proposed ; but the weather was
indisposed. The midnight ferry that took us across the Hudson
had to plough through blocks of ice, the river having frozen
(an unusual event, I think), and this was only the beginning of
that long journey's happenings. We entered the train, lingered
long over supper, then went to our beds. We slept as though
we should never wake ; and when at last we did open our eyes
we wondered that it was not yet morning — we wondered, too,
why the train no longer moved, and why darkness enveloped
the outlook. Looking at the time, we found that it was ten
o'clock, and we soon learnt that we had been embedded for
many hours in a snow-drift half-way between New York and
Washington ; and that the dull thuds that had been beating on
our ears were the efforts made to dig us out of our white-walled
prison. There we remained, however, hour after hour, and
it was in vain to storm and rage, as Herbert undoubtedly did,
marching like a caged lion up and down the aisles of the
train.

We reached our destination during the afternoon, and were
all the more enthusiastically received because of our adventures.
Of course the theatre in New York (where we arrived in the
grey of the next morning) had to be closed that night. But
the " bills " posted all over the town did us no harm, for what
was lost in a" house " was made up for by unlooked-for and
gratuitous advertisement.

HERBERT AND I 93

Our stay in New York lasted six weeks — six weeks of success,
gaiety, interest, excitement. We were charmed with the atmo-
sphere of crowded, high-spirited life — charmed with the kindness,
the exuberance and festivity of our many friends, charmed with
the wealth and taste and comfort of the homes we saw. Of
the parties to which we were invited, above all I remember one.
It was at a lovely old house in unfashionable but beautiful
Washington Square. There Melba sang, and Maurel, and after
supper the leader of a light-hearted frolic was the beautiful
Nancy Astor (it was before her marriage), gay and lightsome as
a fairy-child, who seized Bret Harte by the hands and insisted
upon his dancing up and down the room with her. Unforget-
table picture : the lovely, laughing girl, and the white-headed
man, treading with unerring grace and rhythm a fantastic, un-
premeditated tarantelle !

All that there was in New York of gay, memorable and
remarkable was ours to share, to see, to know : music parties
in dim, rich rooms where Ethelbert Nevin would croon his sweet
songs ; a cotillon brilliant with costly favours within the his-
torically rich portals of Mrs. Paran Stevens ; the Assembly Ball ;
special festivities on Washington's birthday ; tearing drives
on Sundays out to some twenty-miles-distant Country Club ;
many and many a joyous, impromptu gathering, where we would
entertain or be entertained by Dixie, the famous American actor,
Clyde Fitch, the author, the Abbeys, that prince of romanticists,
Joseph Leiter, and all the glad Bohemian spirits of the hour.

After a great farewell ovation, we left for our second destina-
tion, Chicago, leaving our hearts in New York, where we had
been so feted and so happy.

An interminable journey of a night and a day brought us
at last to the busiest city in the world. It had been painted for
us in very sinister colours by Chicagophobes of New York ; so
that it was a relief to find the huge place not quite so black as
we had feared. We made good friends there, had wonderful
success, and gradually — for we stayed a fortnight — acquired
a fondness for its ruthless work, its ruthless play, its whirling,
grinding wheels of never-resting life. In its homes there was
endless wealth, of course ; and wealth was bringing with it all
that it can buy of beauty and culture. Chicago was crying out,

94 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

in a loud, hoarse voice, for the Best ; and to get the Best was
a large part of its daily, its almost blood-stained toil. This
is how it seemed to us, Chicago with its million factories, its
unending noise, its lawlessness (sand-bagging the stranger in the
streets at night was a fashion prevailing at the time), its great,
immeasurable Lake, its great, immeasurable industry, its some-
what elephantine gaiety, its breathless hurry, its fevered in-
completeness. But I speak of twenty years ago. No doubt
Chicago has achieved a beautiful, classic calm in the meanwhile.
In quaint and pretty Philadelphia, with its avenues of trees,
its old houses, its sense of Penn and a mighty Peace, we fell in
with two sweet friends of whom, though I never saw them again
after leaving America, we cherished loving memories. These
were Mr. and Mrs. Lippincott. They were devoted to Herbert
and me, and they devoted themselves to us. At parting she
gave me a golden twenty-dollar piece, saying : " Keep this, and
you will always have money." How often have I longed for the
£5 it represented ! But I have never parted with it, because of
her kind prophecy. It was on our way either to Philadelphia
or to Baltimore that Herbert, as was his genial custom, invited
the whole company to dine with us on our Sunday arrival.
In due course we were assembled, and Herbert ordered the
usual magnums wherewith to slake our thirst. To our dismay,
to his rage, we were told that no wine could be served in that
town on Sundays. Furious at this thwarting of his hospitable
intent, alternately speechless with wrath and voluble with
invective, Herbert denounced the whole American race, pre-
dicted its speedy downfall, declared that the matter should
have world-wide publicity, and was only stemmed in his tor-
rents by someone suggesting that some such keepsake as Mrs.
Lippincott had bestowed upon me might soften the heart and
open the cellar. The dinner proceeded, and a hilarious evening
ended amid a sea of champagne and liqueurs. Herbert said
on that occasion, as on many and many another, " I can always
get what I want." It was true.

Boston — beautiful city on its beautiful river — is memorable
because of our visit to Harvard, where Herbert delivered a lec-
ture to the students. It was a great occasion, and one of lively

HERBERT AND I 95

emotion. Wonderful it was for him, for us both, to see, to ad-
dress, to hear the plaudits of Young America : so fresh, so eager,
so warm in their welcome, so tumultuous in their delight. I
remember their enthusiastic appreciation of his point about the
proverb, " Whom the gods love die young." To Herbert this
had always meant, and he told them so, " Whom the gods love
never grow old " — good tidings to their yearning, aspiring youth !
Then it was, in the course of this speech at Harvard, that Herbert
first gave that wonderful " stunt " of his — delivering "To be
or not to be " in the voice and manner of Falstaff : delivering
Falstaff's "Honour' speech from Henry IV. in the voice and
manner of Hamlet — for Herbert declared the philosophy of both
speeches was exactly the same. Harvard rose to him.

In Boston, too, we went to see the Girton of America, which,
to my mind, tremendously out-Girtoned our own Women's Uni-
versity ; but I daresay I was prejudiced by the charm and
quickness and reciprocity of our girl-graduate hostesses, who
surrounded themselves with all that was most beautiful in modern
thought. Their shelves teemed with poets, their walls glittered
with reproductions of Old Masters and the gems of Watts and
Burne-Jones : they seemed athirst for beauty and culture. Im-
mediately on our arrival at Washington we were entertained by
the Henry Whites, they of the beautiful bearing and exquisite
manners, who, for some reason or other, were absent for the
moment from their diplomatic duties in London. This plunged
us in medias res of political life : Sir Julian and Lady Pauncefote
entertained us at the Embassy, and their daughter drove me
about and around, sight-seeing. Washington, the white city,
whose stately streets are as rays emanating from the Capitol
environs ! " Whither the tribes go up, the tribes of the Lord,"
sprang to my lips the moment I saw those gleaming streets
converging and mounting in the winter sunlight : and I never
think of Washington without those words coming into my
head.

Presentation to the President (who had attended our opening
night) was, of course, part of our happy experience, and we have
often since contrasted that ceremonial with the far simpler one
of our presentation to Queen Victoria. To gain access to Mr.
Cleveland was through tortuous mazes of police, soldiers, servants,

96 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

secretaries ; through endless succession of chambers, ante-
rooms, corridors, staircases ; arms presented, pistols levelled (as
it seemed to us), until, at last, suddenly, just when we had given
up all hope, we came to a massive writing-table, from behind
whose piled documents there rose — for all the world as though it
might be Whiteley — a massive man, who gave us courteous greet-
ing. Once in his actual presence, the awe and difficulty of our
penetration thither were at an end. He was delightful : simple,
affable, amusing, so that really one forgot to tremble in the orbit
of the vast powers bestowed upon him.

In Washington it was that Herbert and I had the privilege of
meeting two of her distinguished writers, Thomas Nelson Page
and Colonel John Hay. Delightful company themselves, they
bequeathed us delightful company, in the shape of their books,
treasures still jealously guarded. They came to supper with us,
and our other guest was Rudyard Kipling, who charmed us with
stories of his farm in Vermont, " and all its wild life tamed by
love " — surely the cradle of his " Jungle Book " and " Just-So '
fancies ?

The Leiters' house, whose white salon was dreamy with
exquisite, priceless Boucher panels, was memorable to us because
of its three daughters, each one more radiant than the last. The
eldest, Mary, with her angel-face, had just become engaged to
Mr. George Curzon, who was already a shining light in the English
political world. It is impossible to imagine a more exquisite
two — destined as they were to a great future. I have already
spoken of Joseph Leiter, the son of the house. His stories of
adventure and hair-breadth 'scapes were told with such convic-
tion, such childish faith in their truth, that one found oneself
accepting them with breathless belief. One of the simplest of
his escapades had been the rescue of a convoy from destruction
by his having held back by the weight of his own unaided body
an express train travelling at full speed ! Pale with wonder, we
were wont to listen ; and only afterwards, when Herbert, less
sceptical by nature than I, would go over the story in horror-
stricken corroboration, did he begin to have his doubts.

We were loth to leave stately Washington of vivid impres-
sions ; still more loth to leave America, as we did a week or two

HERBERT AND I 97

later. It was arranged that we should all see Niagara before our
departure ; but at the last moment we sent the Company without
us, as there was much to be done. Fortunate, indeed, was it for
Herbert that we stayed behind, for on the very last night of our
sojourn in New York we saw acted Trilby. After the second act
Herbert left our box, completed the purchase then and there, and
sailed the next day with the MS. in his pocket. Many friends
came to see us off, and the vessel seemed in danger of shipwreck
from the wealth of flowers and fruit laid at our feet. Glad as we
were to be going to our children, yet the bright gold of the Statue
of Liberty was dimmed by our tears as we passed it in farewell.
Sweet, sweet memories did we retain of fine, eager, great-hearted
America.

We reached home laden with trucks of toys, " notions " and
books for Viola and Felicity, and our home in Sloane Street,
graced by the children's greetings, seemed very fair and good to
us.

CHAPTER V

Herbert lost not a day in getting into Haymarket harness.
He had, I think, already decided on his scheme for the building
of a new theatre on the site of the old Her Majesty's Opera House,
and the air was all a-flutter with his plans. After a stop-gap or
two, Herbert revived Fedora, with Mrs. Patrick Campbell as
Fedora, himself as Loris Ipanoff, and — glad tidings when it be-
came known — Lady Bancroft as the Princess.

This proved for a time an unparalleled success, for Mrs.
Patrick Campbell had immense vogue, and the part of Fedora
suited her mysterious beauty, her passionate wistfulness, her
shadowy grace, to a miracle. The return of Lady Bancroft to
the stage was also a great attraction, and this revival should have
been a sensational " money-maker "■ — but unfortunately, after a
few weeks of the fever-heat of popularity, Mrs. Campbell lost her
voice and was unable to appear ; the excitement faded, the houses
dwindled, the fireworks fizzled out. I say this to my shame :
for it was I who played Fedora in Mrs. Campbell's stead, learning
the part in one night and acting it the next — to perfection, as I
fondly believed. Whatever the rest of the cast in Sardou's drama,
it is only Fedora herself who counts, and in my failure there could
not have been a better example of the triumph of a puissant
personality over mere talent.

The Summer months are busy with plans for the new theatre,
whose building cannot actually begin until the old Her Majesty's
is demolished, and also busy with the more immediate plans of
finding a Trilby. To this end — to the discovery of a Trilby who
should embody, literally from head to foot, La Grande Trilby of
the novel, Herbert, du Maurier himself, and many a lover of the
book devoted themselves.

Pholo by]

MISS DOROTHEA BAIRD AS "TRII.BY."

[T. C. Turner

HERBERT AND I 99

It seemed an impossible task. Great height, a perfect head, a
perfect foot, joyous youth and health, brown hair, blue eyes, the
figure of a Venus of Milo, and last, but above all, an actress —
how could such a combination even exist, much less be ready to
hand ? Yet it was found : exact in every detail, in Dorothea
Baird, a divine girl of eighteen, who would seem to have fallen
from Heaven in answer to the prayers of author and manager.
She had had only a year's experience, but that had been of the
best kind — Viola, Beatrice and Hermione in Mr. Ben Greet 's
Shakespearean productions. Mr. du Maurier used to tell me that
when Herbert and he broke in upon her, they found her lying all
her lovely length upon a sofa, surrounded by books, and engaged
in studying Desdemona. They asked her if she would like to act
Trilby, and in their hearts decided then and there that none other
should. By the end of the week she was rehearsing, and her
success is, of course, historic.

" On the stage the resemblance to du Maurier's heroine had
been perfect. Form and features alike suggested the ministering
angel of ' Les trois Angliches at the Place St. Anatole des Arts,'
but would the resemblance hold good in real life ? Trilby her-
self came downstairs to meet me, with parted lips and outstretched
hands, ' wistful and sweet.' This was Trilby in the flesh. With
a difference, though. The singularly level brows were not thick
and dark, but finely pencilled, as if drawn with a camel's-hair
brush in a tone that exactly matched her beautiful golden-brown
hair, which hung down far below her waist and clung in delicious
little curves round her broad, low brow."

Trilby was first produced at Manchester in the course of our
autumn tour. The success was beyond our wildest dreams. It
took Manchester, as it was destined to take London, by storm.
There can never have been a more radiant cast of a radiant play.
First, that ideal Trilby, " whom to look at was to love," who won
every heart before her opening " Saint, mes enfants," had left her
mouth ; then the three, the perfectly-looked and acted three,
Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee (Lionel Brough, Edmund
Maurice and H. V. Esmond), Madame Vinard, embodiment of
jollity and good heart (Annie Hughes, succeeded in London by
Rosina Filippi), those darling spirits of mirth, Zou-zou and Dodor

100 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

(Gerald du Maurier and Herbert Ross), that pathetic figure of
Gecko, the delicious low-comedy (I grieve to record this, for I
believe that low-comedy as regards these parts was not the author's
intention) of Little Billee's father and mother ; the wild, glad
dancing of really gay grisettes, the happy choice of tuneful melo-
dies— how the audiences revelled in and rose to all these ! And
Svengali ! In the language of a London critic : " Svengali,
marvellous Svengali — a weird, spectral, Satanic figure — he
literally took away our breath." Yes, it was a creation that
took away one's breath with the sheer force of its genius, with
its wealth, its unfathomable depths of fantastic, unpremeditated
art. The creation was so rich, so rare, so subtle, that it was
beyond estimation, and thus beyond praise.

Needless to say that when the Haymarket reopened in October
with Trilby it proved the greatest success that Herbert had ever
had. It was " the rage," as it deserved to be. We were rich and
very happy. When it had been running for many months, I
remember someone looking askance at my un-tiara'd brows, and
asking, " What jewel did your husband give you out of his success
in Trilby ? ' I answered : " Her Majesty's Theatre, but I am
not wearing it to-night." Indeed, that was the precious stone he
gave me — its foundation-stone. This, in June, it was my honour
to declare well and truly laid, in breaking a bottle of champagne
over it, even as Shakespeare slaughtered his sheep " with a fine,
tragic air."

From that time it was Herbert's joy and mine to watch the
gradual growth of his theatre's walls. Herbert grew tired less
quickly of acting Svengali than he did of most parts : I daresay
because he was never two nights alike in it, and because he en-
joyed the riotous fun of it. But his ambition could not be satis-
fied with simply raking in guineas and golden opinions. " Such
inaction was abhorrent to your soul," as Mr. William Archer wrote
of him at the time. So in the spring of 1896 we find him producing
Henry IV. (First Part) for a series of matinees. It was done
upon a very elaborate scale, as befitted the rich and lovely play,
and it was finely acted. It had been Herbert's intention to alter-
nate the parts of Falstaff and Hotspur, a tour de force which he
actually accomplished later, but in London his own success as

Jt*

ftttt^&AM IfttC-

Svengali.
By permission of " Punch."']

I ohn-o'- Dreams.

{By permission of "{The Illustrated Sporting and

Dramatic News.*

102 HERBERT BEERBOIIM TREE

the fat knight and Mr. Lewis Waller's success as Hotspur made it
inadvisable to change a perfect cast. The matinees were as popu-
lar as was every performance of the rival Trilby, which had by
now reached its two-hundredth night.

And when the summer came, we gave our last performance at
the Haymarket, which had become very dear to us, and which
was haunted by many a happy memory. We had had our fail-
ures as well as our successes, but, as I have said, to Herbert
failure never meant defeat, and some of our most exhilarating
recollections came of his persistent refusal to cry " Hold, enough ! "
" If you can meet with triumph and disaster, And treat those
two impostors just the same," must surely have been written of
Herbert; indeed, there are many things in Kipling's fiery
Sermon that stamp Herbert " a man, my son ! ' He could wait
and not be tired ; he could be hated and not hate ; a dreamer, he
could awake to action ; a loser, he could start again from his
beginnings ; at work he could indeed hold on till there was
nothing in him except the Will which cried to him " Hold on ! '
Yes, above all his great qualities there shines that splendid, that
unconquerable Will.

In the autumn of 1896, while yet Her Majesty's Theatre was
a seething mass of scaffold poles, Herbert left for his second tour
in America. Reasons of health forbade my going with him, and
I was left disconsolate in Sloane Street. To give me hope and
occupation in his absence (for I was heart-broken at his going,
so closely had our lives been knit since our journey to America
together), he put me upon a sort of Committee that met every
week for the consideration of the new theatre's progress. It
pleased me to imagine myself useful and important, and I find
that Herbert kept all the letters I wrote him, letters full of little
things — complaints, musings, repinings, rejoicings — Oh ! how
sweet, how bitter in widowhood to re-read 1

Herbert was absent from October until the end of January,
and our third little daughter, Iris, was a week old when he
returned. It had been quite settled and determined before-
hand that the new baby should be the boy of the family, for both
Herbert and I longed for a son ; but the frost of our disappoint-
ment was soon melted away by the calm and inextinguishable

HERBERT AND I 103

sunshine of the new-comer. " Shall I compare thee to a summer's
day ? " became an invariable morning question, and her blue eyes
smilingly answered, " I am more lovely and more temperate."

The American tour had not been too successful, and there was
rather an anxious time ahead, for the new theatre was a monster
whose devouring jaws opened wider and wider every day, de-
manding the bullion and specie which had somehow to be found.
While Herbert was waiting for the completion of its building, we
went together on a little tour, though autumn and not spring
was the accepted time for touring. No great good came of it.
It served, however, as " a prelude to the swelling act of the
Imperial theme," and brought the proud hour nearer when Her
Majesty's Theatre should open its doors.

The day came at last, and a great day it was. To the very
last moment details were being added, our friend Mr. Romaine
Walker, to whom we owed the internal decoration, and Mr.
Phipps the architect, presiding and insisting that the proper
Louis Quinze spirit should prevail. Well do I remember looking
in as late as six o'clock, and finding to our horror and dismay
that some kind firm of pottery-makers had sent in hundreds
of huge vessels, crude, shiny, in shades of yellow, peacock blue
and crushed strawberry — the very worst products of an ugly
age. By dint of frantic endeavour, these abominations were
removed in time to prevent their marring the beautiful sym-
metry and simplicity of Mr. Phipps' and Mr. Romaine Walker's
design, but they had given us a terrible shock, and had nearly
driven from my head the Poet Laureate's inaugural address
which it was my privilege to speak.

Thus trivially, and probably with a hundred other such pin-
pricks, was ushered in so great an hour in Herbert's life — how
great he may have guessed, but I had little idea. It is easy,
looking back, to gauge the courage, the foresight, the leadership
that urged him to embark upon so huge an enterprise, but at the
time one accepted it as no more than the launching of a new play.
Except to him, who always went breast-forward, never doubted,
the undertaking gave rise to a hundred head-shakes. Many a
wiseacre foretold a debtor's prison if not a felon's death for the
brave builder of the House Beautiful (or, happier still, of the

104 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

House Full, as it so often proved). The opening night was a
delirium for both of us of pride, terror, joy, anxiety, hair-breadth
'scapes (as, for instance, when the Prince of Wales entered the
theatre the electric current failed, leaving the Heir-Apparent in
all too apparent darkness) — too fast each one of these did tread
upon one another's heels. Time has not spread a greater mist
over that first night than did the fevers of the night itself.
In a dream I nerved myself to part the crimson velvet curtains
and confront the dazzling, kindly, sweetly-welcoming audience.
In a dream Herbert and I heard the noble voice of Clara Butt
ring out " God save the Queen " — in a dream we heard the
thunder of congratulating applause that greeted him, as for
the first time he made his bow to one of the enthusiastic thousands
who were destined to throng his theatre in triumphant years
to come.

" Very well met, and welcome," were the first words spoken
to an audience in Herbert's theatre, and it was to me that
Herbert accorded the honour of speaking them. Sweet and
sacred it is for me to recall this grace, as it is sweet and sacred
to remember that he chose me to bless its first stone.

" This is a great moment in my little life," said Herbert in
his speech at the close of this memorable evening. " I feel very
proud as I stand here facing this theatre and this audience to-
night. There is so much I should like to say, so little that I can,
yet I must express my thanks to those to whom I owe this beau-
tiful theatre ; I hope you are satisfied with it ? I am ! Fate
is blind, but I have one great power behind me in that I have your
goodwill and that of the Public. And this at least I can promise,
in the words my wife spoke to-night, we shall do nothing to shame
the name we are honoured in being allowed to use. I hope you
are pleased with the play, and that it may be given to me to cater
for you for many years to come, as I have been proud and happy
to do in the past."

It was with Sir Gilbert Parker's The Seats of the Mighty that
Herbert's career at Her Majesty's began. This was a vivid
and picturesque drama by the playwright from his novel of the
name, and it served as an admirable send-off to Herbert's enter-
prise. It was followed after three or four months' run by Sydney

HERBERT AND I 105

Grundy's adaptation of Mademoiselle dc Belle-Isle — a delicious play
to which he gave the title of The Silver Key. This was produced
as late as July, so that it should form part of our tour programme.
It proved an immense success, witty, dainty, bewitching trifle
that it was. Herbert's part, le Due de Richelieu, and mine were
delightful comedy parts, and Evelyn Millard — lovely, gifted
actress — was the heroine.

It was at the opening of Her Majesty's Theatre that Mr.
Dana came to us in the capacity of Acting Manager — and acting
manager he remained for twenty-one years. He was a slave to
Herbert's interests and to his work, and absolutely devoted to his
" Chief " ; so much so that he was sometimes a little hard on those
who were not his Chief. But that is the perfect Lieutenant,
when there is disregard of everyone and everything that inter-
feres with single-hearted loyalty to the Head. Herbert had a
great and true friend in Henry Dana, who served him for so
many years. The following letter will show the affection
and confidence existing between them :

" Dear Lady Tree,

" Your request that I should give you a few recollections
of my association with Sir Herbert takes me back over a period
of twenty-one years, during which time our relations were of the
happiest character. We went through strenuous times together,
and the run of success was not by any means unbroken. At
times we differed as to the policy of the theatre, when heated
arguments followed, but that never made any difference to our
mutual esteem, and a good understanding was soon arrived at.

" I recall one occasion when temper ran high. I left the
room. He called me back, and I refused to return. Within
a few minutes he followed me up to my office, and held out his
hand, frankly admitting that he had been in the wrong, and, need-
less to say, a complete reconciliation followed. It takes a big
man to do that to an employee.

" Another fine point in his character was his accessibility
to the smallest member of his company or the most humble
member of his staff. He treated all with equal courtesy, the

10G HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

result being esteem and loyalty from all who served under his
banner.

" He had the exceptional gift of bringing out any latent talent
in his artists. Many of the leading actors and actresses of to-day
owe their rise in their profession to the early training they re-
ceived at his hands. He was an optimist and an opportunist.
The former trait often led to trouble, but the latter served him
well. One point in our long association was somewhat unique.
During the whole period, we never exchanged even a letter of
contract. We each knew that the other's word was sufficient.
This was the more remarkable as we were not by any means
always in agreement and we were both hot-tempered, impulsive
men. But the real affection and appreciation we had for each
other tided us over any temporary misunderstanding.

" It must be left to abler pens than mine to do justice to
one of the most remarkable personalities that the English stage
has ever known, and I can only add in conclusion that it will
ever be with me a proud and happy memory to have
been associated with the glorious record of His Majesty's
Theatre.

" Sincerely yours,

" Henry Dana."

Herbert had meant to open Her Majesty's with Julius Ccesar,
but time and the particular cast on which he had set his heart
were lacking ; so that it was not until the end of January, 1898,
that he was ready with this, his fourth and most ambitious
Shakespearean venture (one must not count Katherine and
Petruchio, for it is but a garbled version of The Taming of the
Shrew). Herbert hesitated long as to which part he should
choose in Julius Ccesar — Brutus or Marc Antony. Wiseacres
used to come to him and say, " You must be Caesar," " You must
be Cassius," and even, in spite of his slim build, " Casca is the
only part for you, Chief ! " But it was only between Brutus and
Marc Antony that he wavered, and, owing, I think, to my en-
treaties, he settled on Marc Anfony. For Casca he cast Louis
Calvert, that fine Shakespearean actor, who not only acted the
part to perfection, but also rendered Herbert invaluable service
over the production, for long experience and great theatrical

HERBERT AND I 107

forerunners had made him master of many a masterpiece of the
stage.

The play was, I think, perfectly acted. Caesar (Charles
Fulton), Marc Antony (Herbert), Brutus (Lewis Waller),
Cassius (Franklyn Macleay), Casca (Louis Calvert), Portia
(Evelyn Millard), Calpurnia (Lily Hanbury) ; even all the little
parts, such as Lucius, for which I cast myself (at the same time
casting my shoes and skimming barefoot all over the stage) ;
these made up an ensemble that can never, should never be for-
gotten. Sir Alma Tadema not only designed and with his own
hands draped every dress in the play, but also with his own hands
made phalerians, shields, armour and insignia. I can see him
now, in the Property Room, showing exactly how the faggots
borne by the red lictors should be bound ; I see him drawing the
letters of the S.P.Q.R. that were lifted aioft by the Roman Guards.
What happiness it was to see the gradual growth to perfection
of so much beauty !

Herbert did actually study Marc Antony ; spurred to this
unusual effort by Louis Calvert, who urged " tradition," and by
me, who thought I knew every intonation that the part required.
But it all ended in Herbert going his own way, and we, his would-
be teachers, had to acknowledge in the end that his own way was
best.

Nothing more noble and splendid can ever have been seen
upon the stage than Herbert's production of Julius Ccesar, and it
met with all the appreciation and enthusiasm that it deserved.
The gorgeous pageantry of the opening scene, instinct with a
life and meaning that made doubly beautiful the fateful, sonorous
speeches ; the mystery and loveliness of Brutus' Orchard, with
its terror of gathering storm even as gathered the storm in Brutus'
tortured heart, even as gathered and muttered the storm of con-
spiracy ; greatest of all, the wonder and horror of the scene in
the Capitol, enhancing as it did, by the mere force of its staging
and grouping, the wonder and horror of the immortal words —
how memorable were all these ! Night after night was one drawn
to watch that glowing picture ; to watch " this our lofty scene
be acted over," from the gradual, stealthy approach of the
crowd of white-robed, crimson-mantled Senators towards the

108 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

feet of imperious, purple-clad Caesar until they had formed a
ring of murder round about him ; on to the terrible uplifting of
their dripping swords, as they cried in dreadful unison, " Peace,
Freedom and Liberty ! " Then the silent, breathless, fearsome
falling apart as the great figure of Marc Antony appeared, like a
grim question silencing the heroics that died on guilty lips.

It is, of course, Shakespeare, and not any interpreter of him,
that we must blame for the almost unbearably tragic intensity of
this moment. There stands Marc Antony among the murderers,
searching their eyes with his own scorching, agonized gaze, as
each man renders him his bloody hand, while Casca with rude
intent and purposeful cruelty smirches with a crimson stain the
arm of butchered Caesar's friend. One actually saw a new soul
grow in careless, light-hearted Antony who revels late o'
nights ; one saw grey purpose blotting out the gay colour of his
life ; one saw doubt, fear and foreboding spread like a pall over
the confronters of this new Antony, this changed man come to
judge the cruel issue of these bloody men. This scene was not
acted — it was lived by all concerned. Herbert towered above
them (again Shakespeare is to be blamed) like an avenging angel :
albeit an angel with no less of Lucifer than of Gabriel in his
attitude.

Something too much of this, I fear ! But I must be forgiven
for dwelling upon scenes so perfect, so unforgettable ; I must be
forgiven that there rings in my ears for ever the wistful cry :

" O world I thou wert the forest to this hart,
And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee."

Julius Cccsar aroused paeans of praise and established Herbert
at once and for always as a great Shakespearean producer. I
am tempted to quote from a foremost critic :

" The performance of Julius Casar on Saturday night may
fairly be called a revelation : it was the most magnificent presen-
tation of a Shakespearean play that has been seen in our time."

And again :

" The impulse which prompted Mr. Tree to revive the greatest
of Shakespeare's historical dramas was a sound one ; and nobly
has he executed his design. It was less a drama than an im-
mortal page from the world's history that was last night unrolled

HERBERT AND I 109

in a series of gorgeous Tadema pictures ; and it was more than
an honourable page that we then saw added to the history of our
English stage.

" What Mr. Tree has accomplished in this revival of Julius
Ccesar must give every student pause. He has lightly brushed
aside the difficulties that have seemingly paralysed his managerial
predecessors. He has removed from the theatre the reproach of
fifty years' neglect of a great work of universal interest. With
loving labour and at infinite cost he has resurrected ancient Rome
in all its unimagined glory. And incidentally he has paid to the
genius of our national poet a tribute unequalled in our time. ..."

It was but natural that throughout that happy, auspicious
spring and summer we should tread, Herbert and I, upon air. We
both gloried in his triumph, in his justification as a Master-Builder,
in his establishment of his theatre thus early in its life as an
Institution, a noble and dignified one, worthy of the art that
he who reared it loved.

The play and the theatre absorbed us both a great deal —
absorbed Herbert, of course, almost entirely. I suppose we
what is called " knew everybody and went everywhere," or
rather, we were asked everywhere ; but Herbert grew less and less
inclined for " social functions," and loved nothing so much as a
gathering of two or three people at our own home. He had
honour, love, obedience, troops of friends — ah ! and some enemies
too, or one could not have pronounced him really great. Among
the new friends that Julius Ccesar brought us was Lord Rose-
bery, whose own adoring knowledge of Shakespeare made him
grateful to Herbert for his. After one of his visits to the theatre
(a visit, I remember, succeeded by a charming supper at his house,
where either our host or Herbert invented a Shakespeare guessing-
game, in which, much to their father's delight, the daughters of
the house distinguished themselves) — after one of these visits
Lord Rosebery made a speech at a County Council meeting in
St. James's Hall (can it have been the initial meeting of this body ?),
and in the course of it he gave Herbert historic praise. " The
Roman," he said, " was proud of Rome. He should be prouder
still of London. Why, gentlemen, within a stone's- throw of this
Hall you can see put upon the stage with all the splendour and

110 HERBERT BEERBOIIM TREE

all the art that taste and expenditure can afford, the sublime
tragedy of Julius Caesar." These little sentences were treasured
by Herbert as among his proudest tributes.

In our home-life it was still my delight to collect pretty
things, and to have the little house as dainty and comfortable as
it could be, while it was Herbert's unconscious pride to bring his
friends to it. The children — Iris, a baby, Felicity a lovely three-
year-old, and little Viola, an incipient Royal Academician, of
literary, sporting and dramatic tastes — the children were a daily
delight to Herbert, who, short as was the time he could give them,
was happiest of all in their company.

He used to ride every morning, and the children loved to
waylay him in the Park, or to follow him in perambulating
procession as he ambled up Sloane Street. His horse — ah !
thereby hangs a tale (not unnaturally). One winter — 1896,
perhaps — I had gone without Herbert on a little visit to Lady
Wantage at Lockinge. There on the Berkshire Downs I saw a
lovely horse which was for sale. In my mind's-eye I put Herbert
upon its back, and the picture pleased me. I returned to London
the secret possessor, for the sum of £60, of what the groom
described as " a very nice little bit of horseflesh." On one
another's birthdays we were wont to spring little surprises — a
bicycle pretending to be a bonnet, a watch inside a breakfast roll,
and so forth. On this particular birthday of Herbert's I first
brought him up " Bingo," our accustomed poodle, with a new bow
tied among his ringlets, and a declaration that he was this year's
lovely present. Herbert laughed at the joke, but grew wistful
at the disappointment ; whereupon I told him I had a piece of
furniture in the hall, but could not bring it up. This roused him
to scant enthusiasm, for he knew my modern antiques too well.
When he came down, however, crying, " Where's this boasted
present ? " the front door was opened, and there on the doorstep
stood Viola, holding the horse's head — the horse on the pavement,
its front hoofs on the mat ! Nothing I ever gave him — though
how he loved and cherished his watch and the chain woven of all
our initials ! — nothing gave him so much pleasure as the horse,
which he rode for so many years that some unkind wag declared
that it turned from a roan into a chestnut. This (kept at an

A SNAPSHOT, 1896.

HERBERT AND I 111

adjoining livery-stable), the poodle, an exquisite greyhound given
us by David Murray, and the perfection of a white Persian cat,
completed our sum of household pets ; for Viola's snake-craze
had died an unnatural death with the demise of the Saunder-
sonian reptile.

In the autumn of 1898, after an unusually triumphant tour,
which, of course, included Julius CcBsar, Herbert produced The
Musketeers — an adaptation of the immortal Dumas romance
by Sydney Grundy. This brilliant piece of work had an enormous
success. Mrs. Brown-Potter was still in the zenith of her beauty
and grace, though no longer the girlish wonder who had pul-
verized London ten years before, and her Miladi, Herbert's
D'Artagnan, Mabel Love's Gabrielle, and the delightful Porthos,
Athos and Aramis of Louis Calvert, Gerald du Maurier and
Henry Mills, together with a perfect production, made up an
evening of unalloyed joy and high spirits. As the Queen, I had
lovely dresses and jewels, and I sang " Enfant, si j'etais roi '
to a delicious setting ; otherwise I did not matter much ; though
every performance in that great theatre, full to overflowing, was
as full of joy, amid constant happenings and excitements.

From November to April, 1899, " Mr. Tree's superb production
of The Musketeers dazzled and delighted London," as a leading
critic put it, and it was taken off, alas ! in the heyday of its
success, because Herbert was under contract to produce another
play, a modern drama, Camac Sahib, by Henry Arthur Jones.

In the autumn Herbert produced his splendid, his beautiful
King John. It was superbly given, superbly acted ; who that
saw it will ever forget the Constance of Julia Neilson, the Hubert
of Fernandez, the Arthur of Arthur Colmore, that strange, tragic,
panther-like King John, the King John of Herbert Tree ? And
the exquisite stage-pictures — who should describe their utter
beauty ?

The play of King John is less human, less appealing to a public
than Julius Ccesar ; but Herbert's courage, perception of beauty
and genius of stage-management were manifest no less in one
than in the other ; one was no less a tribute of love and reverence
to Shakespeare than the other.

To quote from a contemporary critic : " Meanwhile, let us

112 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

be grateful for King John, and go to see it all we can, for it is a
page of English History set in glorious motion, of which we may
be proud and never tired."

But while the mimic battles were waging without the walls of
Angiers at Her Majesty's, there fell upon England the mutterings
of real war. Strange days began of elation and triumph, fading
to gradual apprehension, mourning and dismay.

The early days of it were hectic and hectoring. London,
such of you as stayed at home, you swaggered and banged a great
deal ; and you were never " tired of killing Kruger with your
mouth." Apropos of Kipling's poem, I had a great adventure
of my own in connection with it — an adventure of which Herbert
at first disapproved, but of which later he learnt to be a little proud.
I had been asked to recite for some important charity, and I saw
that Rudyard Kipling's new poem was announced to appear on
the same day that my concert was to take place. With unusual
courage I telegraphed to the Editor of The Daily Mail, asking if
I might be allowed an advance copy of the promised poem, so
that I might learn it and recite it at St. James's Hall on the very
day of its appearance in his paper. Very courteously my request
was granted, sanctioned by the author, and I received (I have it
now) the proof, typewritten and corrected by Kipling's own hand.
It reached me, I think, on Friday evening, after Herbert had left
for the theatre (there was no part for me in King John) . I read
it and had the judgment to see in it one of the greatest human
appeals ever made. Without a word to Herbert, who would most
certainly have forbidden it, I took hansom for the Palace Theatre,
then the most prominent of music halls ; nor would I rest until
I was in the presence of Mr. Charles Morton — dear, good Mr.
Charles Morton — to whom I unfolded my plan. I would learn and
recite " The Absent-Minded Beggar " every night at the Palace
Theatre for a king's ransom of a salary — half of which I would
give to war charities. In a few minutes the whole affair was
settled. I was to appear on the following Monday. There re-
mained but to confess to Herbert ! I hardly dared to, for in those
days a feud, with Herbert as commander-in-chief, was raging
between theatres and music halls. In great trepidation I waited
for him to come trailing his golden robes from the stage to the
wings, and I saw his greeting smile die upon his lips as I made my

HERBERT AND I lis

avowal. He was angry and horrified, but the mischief was done
and beyond repair. Reluctantly he gave his consent, though
only on condition that I used none of my salary myself, but
devoted the whole of it to the war. " Give all — give all,"
he cried. " Half is half-hearted." So it came about, and for
ten triumphant weeks, for the first and only time in my life, I,
without aid from anyone but my author (aid enough, in all con-
science !), drew the town. On the second night at the Palace
the audience rose and showered gold and silver on to the stage —
an impulse which was unfortunately checked, lest the hurling of
the coins should hurt me. I would willingly have run the risk of
" two lovely black eyes " for such a golden result — but Mr. Morton
came on to the stage, making a speech in which he miscalled the
feverish generosity of the audience " an outrage," and in which
he entreated them to desist. Alas ! notices were placed all over
the theatre begging that enthusiasm money should be placed in
boxes provided for the purpose ! Of course this meant a loss
of thousands of pounds : there is all the difference in the world
between the act of soberly and after reflection dropping a cold
coin into a casket and the joyous abandon of flinging in a fine
frenzy every valuable one has — even the brooch from one's breast
— in answer to a passionate appeal, with outstretched hands, to
" Pay, pay, pay 1 "

My example of reciting the poem and of giving everything I
earned was imitated all over the kingdom, and I believe I was
responsible directly and indirectly for mints and mints of money ;
but then, as I have said, " The Absent-Minded Beggar " made
irresistible appeal. Of all the praise I had — and I had much — I
liked best that of brilliant, all-conquering Harry Cust — that
passionate Imperialist — who came, after hearing me, and said,
with tears in his eyes, " You seemed like a bit of England."

All this is about me ; and not about Herbert and me ; but yet
it did concern our shared lives, for it taught him a new pride and
reliance in me. And my adventure concerned him, also, in after-
time, for it was this utterly unprecedented departure of mine that
helped in the end to break down the barrier between theatre and
music hall. This is a fact, however, for which Herbert was by
no means disposed to forgive me — or not for many years.

114 HERBERT BEERBOIIM TREE

I had to forgo my triumphs at the Palace after ten weeks,
and long before the tumult and the shouting had died, because
Herbert wanted me for Titania in A Midsummer Night's Dream.
I have often wondered how so unlikely a mortal as I came to be
cast for that fairiest of fairy parts. I think it must have been
because of my great love for the words and my sense of mystery
and music. At all events, it proved not the least happy bit of
casting in an extraordinarily happy cast, crowned by the Oberon
of Julia Neilson. This was a noble and radiant creation, a golden
King of the Fairies, instinct with poetry and dignity. With what
majesty of beauty and utterance she spoke the divine speeches !
" And the imperial votaress passed on, In maiden meditation,
fancy-free " — rings in my ears ; as does her lovely singing of " I
know a bank whereon the wild thyme grows." By the by, it was
my suggestion that she should sing this to the setting of Mendels-
sohn's " Auf Fliigel des Gesanges." It must have been an en-
trancing production, carried on to every available atom of Mendels-
sohn's entrancing sounds. Music-lovers would come over and
over again to see the play, arriving at a quarter to eight that they
might hear the perfectly-played and interpreted overture.

Well do I remember the final dress-rehearsal two days before
the production. It was one of those fiasco rehearsals such as
from time to time precede a triumph or a disaster. It lasted until
the small hours of the morning. The poor, tired little fairies had
all been sent home at midnight, stuffed with sandwiches and
stuffed into cabs. Everyone except Herbert was cross, worn-out
and correspondingly despondent. He, as always, rose to the
occasion ; summoned a few of us to Ins room, and for an hour —
probably from 4 to 5 a.m. — we discussed how failure was to be
averted, how things were to be pulled together, what could be
done to evolve order and beauty from chaos. And lo ! the first
night brought a performance without a hitch ; such fairies,
lighting and scenery as had never before been seen — a very Mid-
summer Night's Dream of loveliness and magic.

It ran for many happy months, being one of Herbert's greatest
managerial successes. As actor, there was really no part for him
in the play. Oberon is the hero, the be-all and the end-all of
A Midsummer Night's Dream. I hated to see Herbert acting
Bottom the Weaver, as I hated to see him act Caliban in The

HERBERT AND I 115

Tempest — I had rather have seen him as Theseus in one and as
Prospero in the other — but one's opinion could not always pre-
vail.

On the other hand, as Herod, in Stephen Phillips' beautiful
play, which succeeded A Midsummer Night's Dream — as Herod I
considered Herbert's performance unsurpassable. This was the
first of the three Stephen Phillips plays that Herbert produced ;
and Herbert gave it all the love and care and beauty that it
deserved.

The production of Herod was called " a great night for the
English Drama," and Herbert was lavishly praised for " his
courage, faith and enterprise as well as for his devotion to that
glorious side of his art which ennobles the stage " — while the
setting was called prodigious — triumphant — a wonder — a miracle
— a noble undertaking. " The whole tragedy is great because
Herod himself is great." Herbert's acting, too, as the king

" Pinioned in bondage of barbaric pomp,
A tiger soul, freezing the gentle blood,
Steeping man's destiny In dark despair " —

was widely acclaimed as reaching in its splendour and majesty
the highest point of tragedy. " The close affects us like the
close of some great symphony," wrote one, of that long, poignant
stillness as of death when Herod, hearing that his beloved
Mariamne is no more, remains " in catalepsy bound " while the
Physician in his tender prophecy ventures a hope of balm to
the tortured mind. (How Herbert loved these words !)

" Rest and a world of leaves and stealing stream,
Or charm of human words that drip and drip
And falling boon of the beloved hand,
And solemn swoon of music may allure
Homeward the ranging spirit of the King.
These things avail, but these thing3 are of man.
To me indeed it seems, who with dim eyes
Behold this Herod, motionless and mute —
To me it seems that they who grasp the world,
The Kingdoms and the power and the glory
Must pay with deepest misery of spirit,
Atoning unto God for a brief brightness
And even ransom like this rigid King
The outward victory with inward loss."

116 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

This brings us to the spring of 1901 : when all England — all
the world — was thrown into sorrow and mourning by the death
of Queen Victoria. I was sorry that in going to Windsor for the
funeral, Herbert missed one of the most memorable and impres-
sive ceremonials that ever took place. How wonderful it was
to see a nation mourning, as through the London streets the gun-
carriage bearing that small flag-covered coffin made its sad and
solemn way ! Poignant, prophetic was the rise and fall of
the music as Chopin's March, now sorrowful, now triumphant,
echoed, like a wandering voice, through the air. Thus was
the great Queen carried through London amid her people's tears.

So profound and universal was the grief created by the
Queen's death that it seemed as though the spirits of the popu-
lace were damped for ever — it seemed as though the gaiety of
the world had suffered eclipse. But very soon routine reasserted
itself : work, play, life glad, life dull, the everything and the
nothing of every day were quickly resumed. In February,
Herbert put on his beautiful, memorable Twelfth Night, which I
will not for one moment allow was not that play's best revival
of these days, and far, far the most successful from a monetary
point of view, for it ran more than three months, to the capacity
of the theatre, which means that about 200,000 souls saw it.
I hope I may be pardoned these sordid facts, which are put
forward rather in a spirit of truth and justice than of boastfulness.

Let there be no boastfulness in my own story of Herbert's
Twelfth Night : for in connection with it I made the mistake of
my theatrical career — perhaps of my whole life. Remembering
the flattering prophecies of Sir Charles Wyndham, for whose
judgment one had naturally a limitless respect, I hungered for
the part of Viola. Herbert had set his heart — and events proved,
as they generally did, how absolutely right he was — on Lily
Bray ton. She was a new-comer to our theatre — a tall and
beautiful girl, who had been playing with Sir Frank Benson
in the provinces, but who with us, as yet, had merely played
two or three times as understudy for Mariamne in Herod. That
she should be Viola was settled : and I was given — actually
given and I refused it ! — the heavenly part of Olivia. (I should
have acted it beautifully, by the by !) I took the notion into
my head that Olivia was dull — dull ! — and announced my inten-

HERBERT AND I 117

tion of playing Maria. This was because I still wanted to flit
and dance about the stage ; and I wanted to sing the delightful
song, " Roses, their sharp spines being gone," so sweetly set to
music by Paul Rubens. (Paul Rubens, I remember, made nearly
all the music for the play : evolving it on the spot, on our piano
one evening after supper.) Well, Olivia was assigned to beautiful
Maud Jeffries, and I chose the part of Maria. I rehearsed it
several times, a little dismayed to find myself ill at ease : for
as a rule I fell into my parts with confident facility. One even-
ing Mr. Dana arrived to see me — sent by Herbert, whose tender
heart dreaded to administer the blow — to beg me to give up the
part. " Maria ? — Maria is a soubrette. If you try all your life
you can never be a soubrette," he urged ; and with many tears
I could not but acknowledge he was right. It was Winter
trying to be Spring, I remember ; and Herbert took me away
to Aldwick, where we had a little sea-shore house — took me away
to cheer me, for I was terribly cast down, as well I need have
been. I filled the rooms with daffodils in yellow jugs — and
daffodils in those particular yellow jugs to this day recall my pain
and disappointment. Mr. Webb and Stephen Phillips were our
guests, and of course all the children were there. Stephen Phillips
read us " Marpessa " — divine poem — and the outlines of
' Ulysses " — and in rather a sardonic spirit I held the book of
Twelfth Night, hearing Herbert the words of Malvolio. Strange,
vivid, fervid little holiday — and a gate, too — a gate that closed
behind one while one was idly examining its lock.

Everyone remembers the success of Twelfth Night : gay,
dreamy, sweet, fantastic Twelfth Night. Everyone remembers
Olivia's garden, with its broad grass terraces (as a matter of
fact, Herbert copied this scene from a garden picture in " Country
Life " : stumbling as he so often did upon something that
months at the British Museum could not have given him).
Everyone remembers sweet, witty Viola ; gracious Olivia ; Nor-
man Forbes' inimitable Aguecheek ; Lionel Brough's superb Sir
Toby ; Herbert's Malvolio — ah ! what a Malvolio !

Herbert's Malvolio — " fantastic, dignified, abundantly absurd,
yet as undeniably pathetic " — Herbert's Malvolio seems to me
one of his finest acting achievements — all the more so for its utter
spontaneity. Once more he drifts instantly and mechanically

118 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

into the very inside of the man : there was never the
slightest hesitation as to make-up, manner, or method. From
the first rehearsal Malvolio materialized — if one can speak of a
conception so feather-light as materializing. Herbert loved
this part — loved the whole play, and used over and over
again to be found in the wings shrieking with laughter over
the kitchen scene, that highest point of Shakespearean fun — or
so it seemed to us as acted then. One of the greatest features
of Herbert's Twelfth Night was the Feste of Courtice Pounds — he
of the exquisite voice, he of the gay and lightsome personality,
he of the dancing heart. His performance ranked with Herbert's,
with Lionel Brough's, with Norman Forbes' — as absolutely
perfect.

The following letter from Norman Forbes is interesting :

" My dear Lady Tree,

" There are so many good things that dear old Herbert
has done and said since we were practically boys, that it is im-
possible to give you more than one or two examples of the many
stories I have told you within the limitation of a letter. In
case you have forgotten the Hurstmonceux one, this is it :

" When Herbert and I were with Claude Lowther one day in
the garden of the castle, a large party of trippers arrived upon
the scene, on a day when the castle was not open to visitors ;
one of the party, however, approached our host and raising his
hat said : ' Excuse me, but are you Colonel Lowther ? ' to which
Claude immediately replied, pointing to Herbert, ' No, that is
the Colonel.' The visitor then addressed Herbert in these
words : ' I am sorry, Colonel Lowther, to have brought my
party here on the wrong day, but since we are here would you
allow us just to look at your beautiful gardens before we return ? '
' Certainly,' said Herbert, ' and pick as many peaches as you
like.' This was too much for Claude, who immediately advanced
and said : ' Yes, and my name is Herbert Tree of His Majesty's
Theatre, and I shall be delighted to put a box or stalls at your
disposal whenever you care to write.' When we were all three
dining together afterwards, Claude told Herbert that some of the
party had asked him if he couldn't make it for the Coliseum.
X<me laughed more heartily at this joke of Claude's than Herbert.

HERBERT AND I 110

" He told me he had received a beautiful machine from a
gramophone company for his acceptance with the request that
he would allow them to publish his letter of acknowledgment.
Herbert wrote : ' Dear Sir, — I have received your instrument,
which seems to me to add a new terror to life and makes death
a long-felt want.'

" The provincial managers, as you know, cover the hoardings
and walls of towns with huge letters of the name of a London star.
I happened to be passing through one of these towns on my
way to see your husband and was confronted with his name in
enormous block letters. I twitted Herbert with this, and he
said : ' Yes, you are quite right, and when I pass my name in
in such large letters I blush, but at the same time instinc-
tively raise my hat.'

" One of the best things he ever did for me was when we first
knew each other. He took me to some pretty rooms in Orchard
Street and introduced me to the lady to whom he had been
engaged the night before. She sang the ' Creole Love Song ' with
infinite beauty and feeling ; it rings in my ears as I write and
calls up the picture of those two handsome lovers and Herbert's
joy at my enthusiasm of her singing. The result of this union
was three handsome daughters, Viola, Iris and Felicity, the
three Graces, not only embodying beauty and the Arts, but the
divine sense of humour, a rich inheritance from their dis-
tinguished Father and Mother.

" What a long letter ; I hope you will be able to get through it.

" Ever yours affectionately,

" Norman Forbes."

CHAPTER VI

And here this reverie of mine — for it is nothing more — this
reverie called "Herbert and I" should come to an end; for
after the production of Twelfth Night it would be idle to pretend
that in reaching towards his high goal Herbert walked hand-in-
hand with me. A little chain of us followed him : Viola, Felicity,
Iris and I making up the links, for he made even those tiny
babies interested in his work. According to their tempera-
ments, Felicity when she was four was hearing him his parts,
Iris when she was two was repeating them by heart, Viola from
infancy was designing his scenery.

One reason why it is no longer " Herbert and I " is that
our ten years in Sloane Street came to an end. That meant
good-bye to our happy little suppers there : good-bye to a
great deal that had made our home so sweet. When a passing
doctor set his heart on our white front-door and the lattice
windows of our dining-room and arrived, cash in hand, to buy
us out, we were beguiled into giving up our little house. Cer-
tainly we had outgrown it, and Viola's manifold pursuits cried
aloud for something of a studio ; but I am afraid we left behind
us more than what a polite interviewer described as " Mr. Tree's
exquisitely appointed and tastefully decorated dwelling " !

Long were we in finding a new home. We pic-nicked for
a year in Westminster, where I found a tiny little Georgian
house in a street which Herbert thought "slum," but which
is now the abode of all the rich and most of the great. There
was no room for the two little girls, who had to have lodgings
with their nurse in the house opposite ; there they languished
over " whooping the whoop," as Herbert called it (whether then
or after " looping " I cannot remember). But by this time
Herbert's beautiful "Dome" room had come into being — and

120

HERBERT AND I 121

he became all too independent of entertaining rooms or
rooms for business transactions at home. There followed many
years of entertaining joyful gatherings, happy carousals there ;
but there he was the host, and though I was responsible, as at
Sloane Street, for the well-being of our guests, I never con-
quered my feeling that I was a guest myself. However, our
home life, though in abeyance for a time, was by no means
over, and when we found the lovely Charles-the-Second house
at Chiswick, all our household gods emerged from their ware-
housing, and my passion for curtain-hanging and furniture-
hunting began anew. Walpole House in Chiswick Mall, which
we took in June, 1904, had been rebuilt by Charles the Second
for Barbara Villiers — and there could be nothing more beauti-
ful, comely and stately than its rooms and staircases, its windows,
wainscots, its terrace, its high-walled garden and orchard, its
tall and graceful iron gates. Over those very gates did Becky
Sharp fling the lexicon at Miss Pinkerton, for Thackeray made
Walpole House the scene of Becky's school-days.

Tapping with her little heels along the broad, shallow stairs,
and standing in the tall, stately windows of the great drawing-
room, the ghost of Barbara Villiers was to be heard and seen —
seen, wringing her hands for the loss of her beauty ! During
our time there is no record of her having been encountered;
but I remember so well, before we actually took the house,
meeting a lady in the garden whom I had never seen before,
whom I never heard of again. She said to me very gravely,
" Are you quite, quite determined on taking this place ? '
" Quite," I answered with enthusiastic determination. She
turned away with a sigh, murmuring, " Then I will say no more."
She may have seen poor Barbara Villiers — but she did not unfold
her tale, and I was left wondering. Certainly there came a
day when a woman stood at one of those stately windows over-
looking the broad silver river — stood and bewailed the loss of
such good looks as she ever possessed. Perhaps my mysterious
garden-lady foresaw that such a misfortune would overtake
the chatelaine of that house ?

Oh, but that house ! — to which I devoted all my taste and
care ; and her studio and garden, to which Viola devoted her
life and thought — how enchanting they were, and how Herbert

122 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

loved the all too little time there that each busy day allowed
him ! That was its drawback : its disenchanting distance. A
motor we had by now, but more often than not our early motors,
like our early chauffeurs, refused to work ; and taxi-cabs had not
yet attained their proper rank. Thus Chiswick Mall seemed
miles and miles away. All our interests — the theatre, the chil-
dren's education, Viola's singing lessons, Viola's friends, my
friends — all were seven leagues from our home — and so it came
that much of its loveliness was lost on us. We saw more of the
ugliness and squalor of King Street, Hammersmith, than of the
peace and dignity of our King's house, our garden and our river,

" Though deep yet clear j though gentle, yet not dull."

I cannot add " without o'erflowing full," for the Thames had
a curious and disconcerting habit of entering our kitchen unan-
nounced, and we used to find the servants riding the waves on
broomsticks. This only happened twice, for our good friend
and landlord, Sir John Thornycroft, came to our rescue in the
character of Canute, and, more effectually than his forerunner,
forbade such procedure on the part of the tide.

But, remembering our dwelling-house, I am losing sight of
the Play-house — and it was at his theatre that Herbert's life
was centred. I must go back to 1901, when in June Twelfth
Night, sweet, enchanting Twelfth Night, though it was still
crowding the theatre, had to be withdrawn because Herbert
had arranged the previous autumn that Sarah Bernhardt and
Coquelin should have Her Majesty's for their six weeks' London
season. Well, it could not have been devoted to a more brilliant
purpose, and we were proud indeed of our distinguished lessees.
I remember arranging at home a little supper-party, to which
Madame Bernhardt, Madame R6jane, Coquelin, Paderewski
and others were coming. Mr. Alfred Rothschild was invited,
and— the only time that he was on his knees to me — he implored
me to transfer my supper from Sloane Street to his house. He
had on the tapis one of his historic gatherings, and my guests
were among the guests he most wanted to entertain. It ended
happily in one of the brilliant Stanhope Place parties, and in

nqi.

v ,

A PENCIL DRAWING BY THE DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.

HERBERT AND I 123

my little fcsta taking place another night. (Mr. Alfred Roth-
schild— what a princely host ! What happy week-ends — like
a fairy-tale for splendour — did Herbert and I have at Halton
in after-years !)

Our sweet friend, Maud Capel, writes me the following :

" Dearest Maud,

" You ask me to tell you what I remember of a certain
supper-party at which I was present in your house, yy, Sloane
Street, long ago. Indeed I remember it all very vividly, for it
always stands out in my memory as a most delightful evening.
The guests of honour were Madame Sarah Bernhardt, Madame
R£jane, Monsieur Coquelin and Sir Alma Tadema. Sarah
Bernhardt was very late, and kept us all waiting a long time,
and then rushed in like a whirlwind, exclaiming : ' En retard
comme toujours I '

" We then proceeded downstairs, and sat down to an excellent
supper, served at two tables. You presided at one, with Sarah
Bernhardt of your party, while I sat at the other table with Sir
Herbert and was very happily placed between him and Monsieur
Coquelin, while on my host's other side was Madame R£jane,
and next to her Sir Alma Tadema. Sir Herbert made a perfect
host, and the conversation was very entertaining, consisting
a great deal of very amusing repartee bandied across the table
between Coquelin and R6jane and Alma Tadema. But I, also,
had some personal talk with Coquelin, which I greatly enjoyed,
as his was a most attractive personality and he was a delightful
talker, in his exquisite French. Altogether a delightful evening,
and a very happy memory of dear Sir Herbert, who was always
invariably charming and kind to me. I remember it was a
lovely night, and he escorted me home to where I then lived with
my mother and brother in Lowndes Street, and I can see him
now, standing bareheaded as he wished me good-night on my
doorstep.

" Your affectionate friend,

" Maud Capel."

In the autumn, after a provincial tour which, alas ! and for
the first time, did not include me, Herbert produced that delicious

124 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

play by Clyde Fitch, The Last of the Dandies, in which Herbert
had the pre-eminently " Tree " part of Count D'Orsay. I shall
be accused of pronouncing everything that Herbert did " perfect."
It is no more than the truth that, in nine parts out of ten that
he essayed, his acting was perfect. There are actors who in
many of his many parts could have equalled — not outshone —
him ; but what other actor could have lived, as he lived, them
all ? Now, in one year, he has darted from Malvolio to Count
D'Orsay — with a morning call now and then on Robert Macaire,
Beau Austin, Svengali, Demetrius, Gringoire, Sir Peter Teazle
and Hamlet ; now he flits to Ulysses — Ulysses in Stephen
Phillips' beautiful play — and from Ulysses to Falstaff ; with
a passing nod to Herod on his tour. Ah ! say what you will,
Posterity, here was a great, great actor. We shall not look
upon his like again ! I make no more apologies for praise.

The Last of the Dandies was a delicious play — perfectly put
upon the stage. For the first act — D'Orsay's dressing-room —
London was looted for priceless Empire furniture (the cheval-
glass still survives) , and Herbert was lent an heirloom of a silver-
gilt dressing-case, historic, superb. For the second act — a
boating-scene — a river of real water was let into the stage of
the theatre, to Herbert's intense and almost childish apprecia-
tion. A wonderful effect ensued.

How he loved to try and bring woods and streams and founts
and skies and mountains on to the stage ! And pillared palaces,
and long-drawn aisles : stately castles, grim battlements, battle-
fields, pine forests, beech woods, fields jewelled with daisies, and
yellow sands ! Who has striven towards all these so lovingly, so
persistently ? Herbert condescended to " curtains " for a brief
space in the course of his career — but he hung them to prejudice,
not to conviction. He knew perfectly well that the writer of plays,
be he Pinero or Shakespeare, requires — nay, demands — every-
thing that the art of the stage can do for him.

Ulysses, by Stephen Phillips, succeeded The Last of the
Dandies, and here again I was cheated (as I chose to think) of
acting in it. I had been promised Pallas Athene, a small but a
divine part, and I conceived that she should seem divine. In
my mind's-eye I clothed her in gold from head to foot, her face

HERBERT AND I 125

and her whole figure were to be shrouded in a golden veil ; and
such an effect of misty golden light was to glow upon her con-
tinually that she should always appear to the audience as more
than mortal. Unfortunately, so jealous was I of my idea that
I did not air it in time : and meanwhile, for some inscrutable
reason, perhaps not unconnected with the Coronation of King
Edward, Herbert and Percy Anderson and Stephen Phillips
had conceived Pallas Athene as Britannia ! Once more a
timid deputation awaited me, and told me I had neither the
looks nor the physique for Athene (or Britannia), and thus my
dream of a golden goddess perished. It is but fair to add that
beautiful Constance Collier more than justified their choice of
her instead of me — indeed, the whole casting of the play was
beyond praise.

I believe there are some Stephen Phillips enthusiasts who
admire Ulysses more than any of his plays ; but I confess to
preferring Herod and Nero — though who can deny its beauty ?
It ran from January to June — and then Herbert had a brain-
wave which captured the imagination of London. He decided
that in Coronation year Shakespeare should not be left un-
crowned, and he gave him a crown indeed ! He had to move
Heaven and Earth to secure both Mrs. Kendal and Ellen Terry
as Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page : but Heaven and Earth met him
half-way ; and a historic, famous revival of The Merry Wives
of Windsor was the result. With those two great actresses
supporting him, his Falstaff was finer than ever : and there
were Lionel Brough, Oscar Asche, Courtice Pounds, E. M.
Robson and Henry Kemble to make up a marvellous cast.
What an utterly glad time those three months were : and how-
happy I was that I was given my old part of Anne Page ! I
do not think we ever had such uproariously overflowing audiences.
It was the comble of Herbert's first five years at Her Majesty's,
which, by the way, now became His Majesty's Theatre. On
April 25th, 1902, the fifth anniversary of the theatre's opening,
Herbert gave a supper-party on the stage. (If you turn this
page you will find the names of his guests.)

Herbert had love and admiration profound for Ellen Terry —
a love which, when he was little more than a boy, and when

12G HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

the stage was as yet a closed book to him, had taken the form
of passionate adoration for an unknown goddess. He used to
tell how, when she was acting Portia under the Bancroft manage-
ment, he, besides haunting the gallery of the theatre, used to
wait outside the stage-door every night to see her emerge : and
once, recognizing her in a four-wheeler in the Strand, courted
violent death by running after her cab for two miles ! Talking
of violent death, we very nearly dealt it to the beloved Ellen
Terry herself during the sojourn of those two perfect Merry
Wives with us. In August, Herbert closed the theatre on
Saturday nights — as neither Mrs. Kendal nor Ellen Terry liked
playing twice a day — and I, having bought a motor (later on
I must tell the story of that guilty acquisition), proposed that
we three, Herbert, Ellen Terry and I, should motor to our little
house by the Sussex sea. In high glee, we left London about
six, and reached Horsham, where we dined quite wisely and quite
well, and then, in the coming of a sweet August night, began to
traverse the thirty or forty miles which lay between us and
Bognor. All went swimmingly — or should I say skiddingly ? —
until we reached Bury Hill, when, half-way to its summit, the
engine stopped, and our little Panhard with its precious burden
began a precipitous career of its own backwards down a winding
precipice. Luckily, our driver, a Frenchman, who had lost chain,
brake, control — everything except his head — managed to keep
enough of that to steer us into a ditch, and so averted our destruc-
tion. This happened about ten o'clock, and all through the
wide August twilight of night we sat upon the thymy plots of
Bury Hill, the ground starred with glow-worms, the heavens
with a thousand eyes. The driver had to walk to Arundel to
get us a carriage, which after some four hours, appeared — and
we reached our cottage exactly at five o'clock in the summer
morning. Herbert and I were terribly anxious for our darling
Ellen Terry, who was accustomed to much care and petting ;
but she never for a moment lost her radiance, her good-humour,
her sweet flow of fun.

The autumn play was an ambitious one, involving tremendous
outlay, strenuous rehearsals, lavish display — The Eternal City,
by Hall Caine. It proved a great popular success, and this

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success I think it deserved. It ran for three months : then,
in January, Herbert revived The Merry Wives of Windsor, with
Ellen Terry again, though, alas ! not with Mrs. Kendal. Her
part descended to me, and though I was proud of the distinc-
tion, I could not conquer an apologetic frame of mind — which
marred both my enjoyment and my acting : one cannot be
ebullient and diffident in the same breath.

At Christmas, Herbert and I had gone to Paris to see Tolstoi's
Resurrection, and we came back determined that it should be
his next production. Mr. Michael Morton adapted the French
play — so divinely acted at the Odeon, and as divinely acted,
while better produced, at His Majesty's. Lena Ashwell and
Herbert were the hero and the heroine in that exquisite heart-
breaking drama, and there never was anything finer or more
poignant than their two performances. There are some who
think Herbert's Dmitri Nehludof the greatest thing that he has
ever done — so reverent, so tender was it ; so large and devotional ;
so happy, then so full of pain ; so simple, yet so fraught
with grandeur. Through the character there shone that " large
lucidity of soul " that glowed in Herbert himself.

I must go back now and tell how I became possessor of a
motor-car. In the spring of 1901, when Herbert and I were
in Paris, we saw Hervieu's L'Enigme. I bought it with what I
fondly called my own money (probably a gift from Herbert),
and set Mr. Frank Harris and my brother-in-law Max to adapt
it for me, calling it CcBsar's Wife. Herbert bought a Grand
(hiignol — " au Telephone " — and took a theatre for me (Wynd-
ham's), where I produced my two plays. Both Herbert and that
good friend of ours, Russell Spokes, put money into my venture,
about which I will say no more than that it cost my backers three
thousand pounds, while I emerged with a triumphal sum sufficient
to buy myself a motor-car ! Clever Mr. Russell Spokes, who was
a kind of financial adviser to Herbert, used to try and explain
this paradox to me, but perhaps I was not so eager to grasp the
enigma as the ill-gotten gains.

" Financial Adviser ' reminds me of one who preferred
the title " Literary Adviser " to the private secretary that
he was.

HERBERT AND I 129

I append Herbert's disclaimer.

[Referee, 22nd Sept. 190 1.]

"MR. TREE'S LITERARY ADVISER.

" To the Editor of the Referee.
" Dear Sir,

" I have of late noticed in the Press frequent references
to ' Mr. Tree's literary adviser.' As I have such good reason
to be grateful to the valued members of my staff, I should be
loth to burden any of them with the errors of judgment, of
style, of grammar and of spelling inseparable from the works
of an actor-manager. Will you kindly allow me to state that
the only responsible ' literary adviser ' attached to Her
Majesty's Theatre is your faithful servant,

" Herbert Beerbohm Tree.
" Central Station Hotel, Glasgow.
" September 18th, 1901."

For a year we were picnicking at our Georgian cottage in
Westminster. Being rather fond of it, I set on foot a scheme
by which we should have had one of the sweetest houses in
London ; for I found that I could acquire another, in Smith
Square, at right angles to and adjoining ours. Aided by experts,
I made plans for converting the two houses into one — by which
means we should have had perfect rooms, ample space, every
luxury, comfort, aspect and delight. Unsupported by Herbert,
snubbed by the County Council, and defeated by the Bank,
my project died. How often Herbert and I regretted it in after-
years !

In the autumn of 1903, Herbert produced his Richard II.
I quote from The Times, because its distinguished critic used
many of the epithets which I should employ could I write as he
does :

" This is a character (Richard II.) that suits Mr. Tree to
perfection. The curious blend in the man of shrinking
effeminacy and philosophic irony, the dreamy languor
interrupted by crises of feverish excitement, the yearning
for affection and the bouts of half-crazy speculation — all

180 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

these things the actor brings out with such completeness
as to make his Richard probably the most haunting figure
he has yet given us. The great scene of abdication in West-
minster Hall, culminating in that wonderful passage of the
broken mirror, was given a quite beautiful ending of the
actor's own invention, in his silent, pathetic leave-taking of
his few faithful friends. His parting with the Queen, too,
was unspeakably touching."

And another leading critic :

" Mr. Tree is among the very princes of producers of
plays. His instinct for effect is little short of the mar-
vellous. None but an artist by temperament could have
devised such elaborate framework for a series of historical
pictures ; as we were taken from scene to scene, our wonder-
ment increased. The mounting is a dream of beauty. As one
sat and pondered over each scene, and tried to realize the
amount of thought it meant, the intimate knowledge it
required to produce such a series of perfect ensembles, the
more one was disposed to thank Heaven that one had a
manager who was so obviously indifferent to the silver, so
long as he could present what he considered a striking pic-
ture of the times. As a spectacle, Mr. Tree's production
of Richard II. surpasses anything we have seen."

That memorable Richard II., with its magnificent cast !
Oscar Asche and Lyn Harding, how gorgeously you bore your-
selves ! Then there were Fisher White, Basil Gill, Lionel Brough
and William Haviland — and that sweet Child-Queen, Lily
Brayton. A great cast in a great production indeed ! One
watched it, enchanted, night after night.

Herbert did not believe that acting could be taught. Of
course, it cannot be, any more than a poet, a painter, a musician
can be made. But he believed in stage training — believed in
giving opportunity for the feu sacre to burn. So in 1904 he at
last realized an old ambition ; off his own bat, as it were, he set
the ball rolling of the " Academy of Dramatic Art." He took
two houses in Gower Street, furnished them, and set up a
school, with George Bancroft as Administrator, and Viola, when

HERBERT AND I

131

she was old enough, as one of the pupils. Having done so much, he
then proceeded to leave it somewhat to its fate, but he had
put into the ground a sturdy plant, and it soon began to do
honour to the parent Tree.

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The next production is Belasco's The Darling of the Gods —
one of Herbert's easy leaps of a million years — from Plantagenet
to Samurai — from wistful Richard to greasy, sinister, satanic
Zakkuri. I thought it an enchanting play — melodrama though
it was. (But, oh, the joy of a fine melodrama and its amazing
superiority over a dull comedy !) The Darling of the Gods,
produced on New Year's Day, 1904, was a sensational success,
and it required no successor until the autumn, when The Tempest
took its place. By this time our little Viola had been lured on
to the stage. This departure caused a certain amount of fric-
tion between Herbert and me, though the prayers of both of
us were only for her happiness. I chose to maintain that not
in the life of an actress is great and lasting happiness to be found.
It is a poison, too — a drug. Once drinking deep of that divinest
anguish, it is very difficult indeed to accustom oneself to hum-
drum— or hum-dram — again. These were my arguments — as
they have been to many and many a stage aspirant. Luckily
in Viola's case I turned out to be wrong. She appeared in the
provinces at first as Viola ; and then she took her place in the
London Theatre world as Ariel — a lovelier or a more fairy-like
could not have been found.

132 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

The Tempest was immeasurably beautiful. The music and
scenery — the voices from nowhere — the atmosphere of wonder
and enchantment, and a poetic and glowing fancy beyond one's
imagining — it was in some strange way what summer dawns
and April twilight are— ineffable. Caliban, too (though I wanted
Herbert to be Prospero), was strangely wistful and pathetic :
his eyes were those of a beseeching dumb thing — and a picture
never to be forgotten was his long, lone gaze across the water
as, Ariel released, the full-sailed ship and its happy mortals
faded on the sight, leaving him and his island desolate.

By this time we were installed at Walpole House, and such
hours as he could spend in it Herbert adored. Its stateliness
and complete loveliness charmed his sense, and all the time he
could give it he gave. Sunday luncheon-parties became our
fashion. At these Felicity, who had (at that age) an angel's
face and the voice of an angel, used to come down at coffee time
and sing to us. Viola had taught her some of her songs, and
there are those who say that an experience never to be forgotten
was that little child lifting up her lovely head and singing
" Myrrha, oh, Myrrha ! I soon will come to thee ! "

Herbert was an unutterable joy to the little children —
whether we had people or no, he was a Sunday lunch institution.
Then would he keep them wide-eyed with wonder and mad with
merriment over his " parlour tricks." His short-sighted man
and the salt ; his tipsy man ; his absent-minded man ; his
epileptic man ; himself dozing under the reading of a bad play,
his head slipping off his hand, his elbow slipping off the table —
what frantic delight they caused ! One Christmas morning I re-
member him wandering forth with the children, taking off his hat
and handing it round among the infantile inhabitants of a neigh-
bouring slum, and begging contributions " for the rich of Chis-
wick." But I leave it to the children themselves to say how
full he was of sweet and blessed fun — the yeast of mortal bread,
the wine of life !

A yearly function at Walpole House, and one that gave
Herbert great joy, was our Boat-Race party. For this I used
to " char " tremendously, trying to make every one of the lovely
rooms of the house more lovely than ever. Because about

i < . *

•*•

MAUD TREE AND HER DAUGHTERS, VIOL,A, FEUCITY, AND IRIS.
Pencil drawings by the Duchess of Rutland.

HERBERT AND I 133

thirty windows commanded a perfect view of the river, one
must needs arrange in addition an extensive system of plat-
formery upon the roof : but every plank was pleasure, so much
did it gladden us to make holiday when we could.

Rather stupidly, we did not often have people to dine with
us at Chiswick ; we had a feeling that it was too far a quest for a
quail. But I remember one party we gave, because Herbert
thought it such a wonderful evening. It was June — and the music
after dinner was to have been in the garden. But Winter set in in
the middle of Summer, as only Winter can ; so we stayed in
the house. We had about twelve people to dine, and I remem-
ber making the unpardonable mistake of hiring a chef from
London's most fashionable restaurant to help my cook. He
arrived with a battery of pots and pans, and with a battalion
of strange, enraged kitchen-men, who gazed at the mullet with
fishy eyes, played pitch-and-toss with ortolans, and, as I for-
lornly apologized afterwards, sent up everything cold except
the ice. That nightmare of a dinner ! (I remember a woman
saying to me, " Your dinner was a dream," and in my pale soul
I wondered what kind of a dream.)

But it came to an end, and we had a wonderful evening,
succeeded — the gods be praised — by a perfect supper. Sweet
music was made in our beautiful drawing-room, where a great
fire blazed on the wide hearth (there was no time of year when
Herbert did not want a fire), and while a guest was playing
the violin so divinely that one wept to hear, I turned out all
the lights and only the fire-glow illumined the room. Herbert
often and often recalled that scene.

Much Ado About Nothing succeeded The Tempest, and sweet
Winifred Emery — she whom I had cheated of Ophelia many
years before, though she never knew it — was the winsome and
gracious Beatrice. Viola was Hero, Herbert, of course, Benedick,
Laurence Irving, Don John, Lionel Brough, Dogberry. It
was a beautiful production, full of sweet sights and sounds,
and the whole play was taken in a delightfully high-spirited,
generous and light-hearted vein.

And after Much Ado About Nothing there is An Enemy of
the People. Herbert revived this after ten years, having always

134 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

loved the part of Dr. Stockmann — and no wonder, for he was
marvellous in it. It suited his temperament exactly — indeed,
there was much of Dr. Stockmann in Herbert's own character.
He revelled in the passionate longing to right wrongs, the pas-
sionate scorn of bigotry and sham, the passionate impulse to
kill prejudice and stupidity. Herbert's wit seized instantly upon
the subtlety of that combined love of fun and want of humour
in the affectionate, generous, blundering Dr. Stockmann.

Says The Times :

" Here (in the third act) Mr. Tree gets his great oppor-
tunity, and he uses it greatly. Dr. Stockmann pouring
forth his stream of denunciation of the pettiness and cor-
ruption of municipal life, now carrying the public meeting
with him, now infuriating it with home truths and reduc-
ing it to sullen silence with hard sayings, until at last the
forces of ignorance and reaction win the day, and the cham-
pion of the doctrine of temporary truth is almost torn to
pieces by the fury of the orthodox — all this makes a scene
not easily forgotten. With a fine contempt for possibili-
ties, one might almost say the part of Dr. Stockmann in
Ibsen's Enemy of the People was written for Mr. Tree —
Mr. Tree is brilliantly successful."

The play drew golden opinions, but never, except at its
first matinee — and that, I think, was an invitation one — golden
houses. It was always played to a loss — a fact which made
Herbert furious, so much did he love the play and love playing
the part.

This year (1905) sees the inauguration of Herbert's famous
Shakespeare Festival, carried out religiously every year from now
onwards : a gigantic undertaking, involving greater toil, greater
courage, greater sacrifice than anyone could know or guess.
But it was his labour of love, and he revelled in the joy of the
exploit. This year he gives (acting in them all himself) Richard II.
(twice), The Merry Wives of Windsor, Twelfth Night, Hamlet,
Much Ado About Nothing, and Julius C&sar (twice) ; all between

HERBERT AND I 185

Monday, April 24th, and Saturday, April 29th ! His own words
will show his gladness and pride.

After the fall of the curtain on Julius Ccesar he said :
" Our Shakespearean Festival has come to a close, and I
need hardly tell you how overjoyed we are that our efforts to do
honour to Shakespeare should have met with so enthusiastic
an appreciation on the part of the public. Spring is upon us
once more, and in the spring the joyous note of the cuckoo is
heard — so also is the croaking of the raven. It happens that
I have been reading to-night a leading article in a great daily
journal lamenting the decadence of the drama. Our best
answer to these lamentations is that during the present week
more than twelve thousand persons have witnessed the plays of
Shakespeare at this theatre, and, indeed, for many years past
there has taken place here a revival of the Shakespearean drama.
Never was there a greater love of Shakespeare than there is
to-day, and you who are lovers of him will, I am sure, be glad
to hear that — God willing — we shall give another Shakespeare
Festival next year — I hope on a more extended scale. However
great and far-reaching the decadence of the drama may be, I
am glad to know that it has not yet reached that section of the
public whom I have the honour to serve, and to whom I tender
my loyal thanks."

I must make brief mention of Business is Business (Sydney
Grundy's adaptation of Les Affaires sont les Affaires) because
of Herbert's fine blending of humour and tragedy in the part
of Isidore Izard. The play was not a success, but Herbert's
acting of the part of the millionaire was one of the greatest
things he ever did.

In the autumn a dramatization by Comyns Carr of " Oliver
Twist," gave us, besides an excellent play, three memorable
performances — Constance Collier's as Nancy, Lyn Harding's as
Bill Sikes, Herbert's as Fagin. Surely nothing that the stage
has seen was more daring and more touching than Constance
Collier's Nancy ? And Lyn Harding — I hope he will forgive
me — Lyn Harding was Bill Sikes. As to Herbert's Fagin —
' this grim, lurid Fagin, like a musty, dusty raven " — it was
what one would expect : a greasy, greedy, shuffling, dangerous,

186 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

humorous devil ; a merry old gentleman to the life ; a despairing,
shuddering, shrieking heap of rags to the death. The most
haunting and the most typical picture of him that recurs to
one's memory is his sitting on Oliver's dirty pallet, patting him
with tender hands to sleep, and singing with ghoulish expression
a little song of Herbert's own composing, " Hush-a-bye, Oliver
— Oily, hush-a-by-a-ye ; hush-a-by-bye, Mister Fagin is here ! '

At the beginning of 1906 there came Stephen Phillips' Nero,
and in this, slightly to my astonishment, I was given the won-
derful part of Agrippina. This called for great tragic acting,
and naturally it was not in me to rise to the heights it demanded.
If I succeeded in it at all, I owe my success to the untiring patience
and kindness of Herbert and of Comyns Carr, who between them
taught me a new low voice, between them watched that my
gestures should be grand and few, between them imbued me
with a spirit which was not altogether unlike the spirit of tragedy.
Oh, the happy days of Nero ! How noble, how beautiful the
play, how gorgeous the setting, how haunting the music, how
full of excitement and glory the traffic of the stage ! During
the dream-like four months of its run I lived only for the theatre :
everything else went by the board. The cup of my existence
brimmed. The audiences brimmed, too : we never had a greater
financial success — this in spite of the fact that it cost considerably
over two hundred pounds a performance to (as they say) " ring
up the curtain."

True to his word, when Shakespeare's birthday came, Herbert
dared to interrupt the brilliant run of brilliant Nero for a week
by his second Shakespeare Festival. These are the plays that
he gave, acting in every one of them himself :

The Tempest.

Henry IV.

Hamlet.

Twelfth Night.

Julius Ccesar.

The Merry Wives of Windsor.

The Merry Wives of Windsor was given twice, and the second
time it was made the occasion of Ellen Terry's Jubilee. Has

HERBERT AND I 137

there ever been such a scene in any theatre ? Once more I quote
from my friend The Times :

" It is fifty years to-day since Miss Ellen Terry first appeared
on the stage, an eight-year-old member of Charles Kean's com-
pany at the Princess's Theatre. Such an anniversary could
not pass unnoticed. In those fifty years the theatre has under-
gone changes which it is very difficult for us, who did not know
the former state of things, to realize ; and, of the two manage-
ments to which the changes were principally due Miss Ellen
Terry was not unconnected with the one and was an essential
part of the other. It was so long ago as 1875 that she went to
the old Prince of Wales's Theatre — where now, through forza
del destino, stands the Scala — to play Portia in the Bancroft
revival of The Merchant of Venice. Will she ever forget how wild
the town, the whole country, went about her ? She looked
' a portrait by Veronese ; ' her acting, though, indeed, she was
not new to the public, impressed them as something they had
never dreamed of before. Three years later she joined the new
management at the Lyceum (having already acted with Henry
Irving in Katherine and Petruchio at the old Queen's Theatre
in Long Acre) , and took the part of Ophelia in the famous revival
of Hamlet. ' She looks like a living model of Giovanni Bellini's,'
wrote M. Jules Claretie of her Ophelia ; but it was not Miss
Terry's appearance alone that showed the wisdom of what had
been Henry Irving's first step towards forming his company.
Ophelia, the playgoers of the time tell us, had acquired a charac-
ter, a thing she had never before had on the stage ; every sen-
tence in her ' mad-scene ' had a reference and a meaning. So
began that partnership, perhaps the most famous in all theatrical
history, which lasted till the end of the great days of the Lyceum
Theatre. Miss Terry was a loyal partner ; she did what she was
told, took parts that were not really suited to her special gifts,
and always gave a good account of them, thanks not only to her
great abilities, but to her staunch support of the master-mind
that directed the theatre. If the celebration of her jubilee is
the special festival of her own achievements as actress, it is also
an opportunity of commemorating the share she took in the great
work for the drama that was done at the Lyceum Theatre.

138 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

" To see her play Mistress Page last night in The Merry Wives
of Windsor was to realize that time cannot wither Miss Ellen
Terry's brightest gift, her sense of fun. Certain of her tragic
parts will always be remembered with pleasure ; but she was
never a tragedy queen. She is at her best when she has to laugh
— just where most actresses are at their worst. Who can think
of her Beatrice without smiling at the recollection of those
delicious quips that used to come bubbling, as it seemed, into
words before she knew that she had said them ? And the raillery
of her Portia, how fresh, how delicate it was ! She is the perfect
image of the witty woman. Always charming, always gracious,
she made an apt foil to Sir Henry Irving, with his severe intellec-
tual appeal. That gracious charm of her womanhood may be
seen still unimpaired in Captain Brassbound's Conversion ;
it is the very essence of the character. And, though she is at
her best when her ebullient spirits have play, her tenderness and
pathos — the pathos of Olivia and Nance Oldfield — are as genuine
and as beautifully expressed as her humour. In the last act
of Charles I. her grief and affection rose to an equal height with
the majestic sorrows of the King. We look back with fond regret
on these parts that Miss Terry will never, it may be, play again ;
we cry ' Pereant qui ante nos juvenes fuere ! ' — the men who saw
Ellen Terry play Beatrice in 1864 or Portia in 1875 ; but we are
not so badly off. If there was anyone present last night who
had never seen Ellen Terry act before, he has only to go on to
the Court Theatre this evening and he will have gained a better
idea of the charm and the powers of her prime than any
other actress could give who has been on the stage for fifty
years.

" The enthusiasm last night ran high. Every reserved seat
had been sold for many days before, and people were waiting
outside pit and gallery from the early morning. Miss Terry's
reception, when first she appeared, was deafening ; then the house
settled dovvn to laugh at The Merry Wives of Windsor, and laughed
heartily. Mr. Tree was at his best as Falstaff ; Mr. Hearn made
an uncommonly good Dr. Caius ; Mr. Brough and Mr. Somerset
as the hoat and Bardolph gave their ripe humour ; and, with
Miss Terry as Mistress Page and Mrs. Tree as Mistress Ford,
the play ran its jolly course. The manner of its performance

HERBERT AND I 139

at His Majesty's Theatre is too fresh in the public mind to need
description ; it is, at any rate, a rollicking piece of fun.

" When the crowd of fairies were tripping off, and Mistress
Page was trying to slink away unseen, Falstaff cried, ' Stop,
mistress, stop ! ' And then came a pretty little scene devised
and written by Mr. Louis N. Parker. A rhymed address, spoken
by Mr. Tree, ended with the lines :

" ' Roll, Drums ! and nourish, Trumpets ! Let the cheers
Many a long day re-echo in your ears !
But, through their clamour, may my whisper move you ;
We praise you ; we admire you ; and — we love you ! '

" Whereupon, after a tucket had sounded, Miss Terry stood
' in pretty bewilderment and confusion.' She had to say some-
thing. What ? Down from the sky flew a dove bearing in
its beak Miss Terry's speech, a pretty speech, which she spoke
with obvious emotion. When this scene was over, Miss Terry
was presented by a deputation from the Playgoers' Club with
a silver casket, which she acknowledged in a few words touched
with apt references to The Merchant of Venice and recalling the
fact that this year she and Sir Henry Irving were to have been
publicly honoured together. After that ' Auld Lang Syne '
was sung by the whole house, and the ' jubilee ' was over."

(One would seem to make an absolute fetish of The Times.
In extenuation I ought to confess that from my babyhood I had
been brought up, probably fed, upon The Times. My godfathers
and godmothers must have wrapped me up in it at my baptism
— and when I came to years of discretion, though often lacking
sixpence, I never lacked The Times. This extravagance — con-
servatism— republicanism — whatever it may be called — was
carried on into my married life. Perhaps that is why, though
often prosperous, we were always poor. Now I come to think
of it, our richest time was during the years that The Times
cost only a penny.)

At the end of May Nero, triumphantly resumed after the
triumphant Shakespeare week, gave place to an adaptation by
Michael Morton of The Newcomes. Herbert's performance of

140 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

Colonel Newcome was just what it was certain to be — a thing of
beauty. Tender, lovable, gay, gallant, infinitely dignified,
infinitely touching, with all its sweet weaknesses and sweet
sublimities : there is everything in Colonel Newcome that
Herbert most admired and revered. This was perceptible in
every instant of his acting. Strange ! having revived this
play in New York in 1917, the last word that Herbert ever
spoke upon the stage was " Adsum ! "

A few weeks further on, and he whose heart was as the heart
of a little child was in the presence of his Maker.

Herbert did not act in A Winter's Tale — the more's the pity :
he would have been a wonderful Leontes. But he made a beau-
tiful production of it for Ellen Terry, whose Hermione was a
noble performance. I was Paulina ; Viola was Perdita, and
she seemed indeed like one of the " daffodils that come before the
swallow dares and take the winds of March with beauty."

Herbert's next Shakespearean production was Antony and
Cleopatra — put upon the stage with all his glowing sense of
gorgeous pageantry. But I consider it to have been one of
his rare failures. This is perhaps because I think Antony and
Cleopatra the one play of Shakespeare's that I have seen (and I
have seen this often) that is better read than acted : there are
things in it that are too ineffably beautiful for stage utterance
and presentment. I had been spoilt, too, for the Roman aspect
of its splendid production by Julius Ccssar and Nero, and for the
Eastern part of its production by Herod. There was for me
nothing new under the sun of its splendour. I do not think
Herbert himself counted it as one of his successes, though oh !
what loving pains he took — what loving pains were taken for
him — what thought and care and money were lavished
upon it !

The Beloved Vagabond — an adaptation by Mr. Locke of his
own delicious novel — followed ; and it gave Herbert just the
sort of part that he loved : dreamy, fantastic, poetic, debonair ;
indeed, when I read the novel, as I did when I read " Trilby,"
before either play was thought of, I exclaimed, " What a part
for Herbert ! ' The play, with Evelyn Millard as its charming
heroine, had an immense success in London and in the provinces.

HERBERT AND I 141

I cannot resist quoting here one of the letters Mr. Locke
wrote me :

" Corner Hall,

" Hemel Hempstead, Herts.
" 5th September, '17.
" Dear Lady Tree,

" Very many thanks for your exquisite little memento
— and for your letter, which touched me deeply. When I first
wrote it was difficult to say much amid the rush of feelings.
One is accustomed, as it were, to death in these dreadful days
— but his came with the shock of newness, as though there had
not been death in the world before. It is given to few men of
a generation to colour the life atmosphere of those not only im-
mediately around him — but of the greater circle with whom he
comes not too frequently into personal contact. In my own life
he meant this vivifying bit of colour. At first I thought it was
utterly wiped out, and I felt a curious integral loss — it is so hard
to get at these very real feelings except allusively — but now I
find that it is not all gone, for it was shown there in the first place
in the immortal spirit of the man. And there it will always be
' I am very proud to have known and loved him.
" Again thanking you for your letter and with my truest
sympathy,

" Yours very sincerely,

" W. J. Locke."

When this Beloved Vagabond of ours (for we who knew his
lovableness and his vagabondage used to call him so) — when, in
1909, he was given his knighthood there were those wise coun-
sellors and head-shakers who urged that he should put bounds
to the sea-coast of his Bohemia ; but he would exclaim, shud-
deringly : " Don't ask me to become genteel." To his delight,
I capped the discussion : "A verray parfitt, but not a genteel
knight."

The event itself — the bestowal of his knighthood — brought
about a time of unmitigated joy and excitement — of a million
congratulations, of a sea of goodwill. When the advent of the
honour was intimated to him, he thought — perhaps he only tried

142 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

to think — that he was indifferent to it. But when it came,
and it seemed as though the whole world were rejoicing over it,
he began rejoicing too, and he ended by being as proud and
glad about it as it was but fitting he should be.

As it happened, Herbert had not held his Festival this year
at Shakespeare's birthday-time, having been compelled to post-
pone it until June. However, he made up for unpunctuality
by added richness : the Festival lasted a fortnight instead of
a week. In those twelve days he gave altogether twenty-one
performances : certainly three of these were non -Shakespearean
though highly distinguished, for Dr. Ethel Smyth produced her
The Wreckers at our theatre, and repeated it twice during those
feverish days.

So it came about that when his knighthood was given him,
he was in the heart of his heart's delight, the Shakespeare
Festival ; and the play, on June 25th, was Twelfth Night. It
goes without saying that the huge audience gave him an unending
ovation on his first appearing ; and when he reached the line
(which his humour did not allow him to mitigate), " Some have
greatness thrust upon them," the house literally rose at him.
Holding Viola's hand and mine, he made a happy speech at the
end : the audience forced it from him ; and it was all the prettier,
like so many of his sudden speeches, for being unprepared. He
said : "I have no words to thank you for the kindness you have
shown me. This has been a very touching day to me, and in
moments of profound emotion one can hardly find expression
for one's feelings ; but I feel thankful to think that this honour
to our art has come at a time when Shakespeare is being honoured
here. I only hope that I may have health and strength to con-
tinue my work, and to serve my loyal Public as loyally as I can.
From the depths of my heart I thank all my kind friends to-
night." He adored his sheaves of letters and telegrams, and I
find them carefully preserved and cherished in two great volumes
— taken care of as it was not his wont to take care. I am glad
for the thousand kind senders' sake that he held them so dear.

After six years at Walpole House we suddenly left it —
suddenly decided we could bear its far-awayness no more.
I had grieved with many tears at leaving Sloane Street, but was

■■

//>•/

/, /-// -5 *-**

VIOLA TREE
From a charcoal drawing by J. S. Sargent.

HERBERT AND I 148

perfectly complacent over the move from Chiswick. Not so
Viola, who beheld with despairing eyes the ruthless wrenchings,
the devastating, desecrating tramplings of the furniture-removers.
To her it seemed sacrilege, for she had spent many a sweet and
sacred hour in those beautiful rooms ; indeed, it was there that
she plighted her troth to Alan, who won her for his wife after
many vicissitudes. It was from our next house — All Souls
Place — that, a year or so later, she was married. I think the day
of her wedding was a great day in Herbert's life — great with
pride, though great with pain, for he was losing what he adored.

All Souls Place was a corner house made entirely of windows,
and drifting on and on into various studios, some of which be-
longed to us, and some to the painter, Sir David Murray. On
Viola's wedding-day they were all open to us, and everybody
we knew came flocking et dona ferentes. Indeed, it was just
like Herbert's sensitive heart to bewail and be ashamed that
people should think it necessary to send her such lovely and so
many beautiful gifts. He said, " It seems so awful. We never
give a party : but when we do, each guest has to give the wealth
of Ind to come to it ! "

Respect for Herbert's name and admiration for Viola caused
an immense demonstration when she was married, and the
theatrical manager in Herbert could not help being elated by
crowds so great that the traffic round about St. Martin's Church
had for some hours to be diverted. I remember his darting to
and fro all the morning from the theatre to the house ; I remem-
ber his sweet, glad face as he brought Viola up the aisle ; I
remember how the tears rained down his cheeks when her friends
sang their chorus hymeneal as she and Alan, man and wife,
left our home.

The years are passing so quickly that one can catch but a
flying gleam of them ; the mists around remembrance grow
heavier even as our days do grow. Thus I am compelled to cast
chronological order to the winds, and I am trying now only to
recall the things that made us glad and proud and happy. One
of these was Herbert's revival of The School for Scandal, with
its glittering " star " cast. Dear, sweet Henry Neville, gallant
and gay, you were one of the stars : you, grand actor, king of

144 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

stage-lovers, whom as a child I had seen and hero-worshipped
when you acted with Kate Terry : you who loved Herbert and
whom Herbert loved.

What a miraculous cast ! Henry Neville, Edward Terry,
Herman Vezin and Lionel Brough : those great names are now,
alas ! erased from the world's programme : but Basil Gill, Robert
Loraine, H. V. Esmond, Godfrey Tearle and Charles Quarter-
maine, you are all here to tell the tale of that happy and wonderful
revival. Ellis Jeffreys played Lady Sneerwell as it has never
been played before : she lifted it into a leading part. Then there
was sweet Marie Lohr, fresh and fair as apple-blossom ; and
Herbert as Sir Peter — Sir Peter of exquisite manners and ex-
quisite humour, sensitive, intellectual, whimsical, lovable Sir
Peter. Sheridan, I should like you to have seen Herbert's School
for Scandal !

It is somewhat late in this dream of mine about Herbert to
speak of one beloved by him who was vividly part of the theatre
for many years — Percy Macquoid. He (and little less his wife,
whom also Herbert loved) was responsible for many productions
for us — from Much Ado About Nothing onwards ; and he it was
who with " one hundred gallant gentlemen ' gave Herbert in
1908 the golden Loving-Cup which was his treasure and his pride.

The dresses, furniture and scenery of The School for Scandal
were designed and carried out for us by Percy Macquoid with
loving joy in all their minutiae ; indeed, everyone was wafted
along by his enthusiasm — wafted in winged sedan-chairs. This
brilliant revival crowded the theatre for more than a hundred
nights. It was impossible for Herbert to keep it on, or it would
have run right through the summer months and on into the
autumn ; but this his plans forbade — to his great after-regret.

From the time that Herbert had his beautiful rooms in the
Dome — a year or two after the actual opening of the theatre —
it became more and more a custom for the children and me to
forgather there on matinee days, to dine between the perform-
ances. Mrs. Browning, who had by now ceased to be the home
cook and had become Herbert's housekeeper in the theatre,
used to give us delicious food ; and Herbert's dresser used to
whisk our plates and pour out our wine. In this Dome, too,
all the plans were made, the plays were read ; and at one time,

HERBERT AND I 145

the outer room became an Infants' School ! This was during
the run of Pinkie and the Fairies — Herbert's first real Christmas
play, I have said how great a love he had for children : and
how great a feeling he had for festivals and feast days. He had
always tried to have something at Christmas-time that children
would like ; but now (I am going back to 1908) Mr. Graham
Robertson brought him a real fairy play, and Mr. Frederic
Norton made sweet fairy music to it. Ellen Terry was the queen
of a perfect cast, which included Viola, Gwendolen Brogden,
Philip Tonge, Iris Hawkins and Stella Campbell. It was a never-
to-be-forgotten afternoon when Herbert, with his usual happy
genius, made its first performance a sort of Christmas party
given by Felicity and Iris. All the children we knew were bidden
to bring their parents, and there never was such hilarious delight,
so much music such as Swinburne loves when " laughs a child
of seven." Elise Craven, you divine dancer from fairy-land,
what an ovation you had ! Ellen Terry, how you were adored !
You little elves and sprites, birds, rabbits and the whole king-
dom of a child's mind, how sweet and glad you made both old
and young ! A mandate had gone forth that young children
must no longer appear in stage productions, because it caused
them to absent themselves from school, or something like that.
But Herbert, with his accustomed " I can always get what I
want " attitude, arranged a school for them in the Dome, with
matron and teachers and all that the heart of a County Coun-
cillor could desire. Say, ye children of Pinkie and the Fairies,
if you were not happy and well cared-for during the play's long
run ?

It would be an ungrateful heart that did not remember
Herbert's Beethoven, for it was a thing of surpassing beauty.
The play was by Louis Parker, and it was hailed with delight
by all lovers of the divine in music, of the great and true in art.
I used to maintain that had it had but two acts instead of three
(beautiful though the last act was, and music-haunted, perhaps,
beyond all the rest) — had the play ended with that tragic mo-
ment of Beethoven's realizing his deafness — a moment which
could have no beyond, for it touched the highest point of tragedy
— the great public would have nocked to the play. As it was,

146 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

it appealed to the few, the choicer spirits — and with them it
ranked as one of the highest achievements of the stage. Herbert
could not read one note of music and knew nothing about music
technically ; but his instinct for it in relation to the needs of
whatever play he was producing was marvellous. Many a fiery
conductor has flung down his baton in a rage because Herbert
has stopped him in the middle of a phrase, saying, " Stop there
— exactly there." Wild appeals on the score of the score would
fall on obstinate ears. " You must cut out all that tra-la-la-la-
ing," he would say, imitating the sounds. The conductor
would break his heart — the first violin his bow ; but Herbert
had to be right. Well — everyone knew his intense feeling for
music, but no one was prepared for his absolute worship of
Beethoven. Yet he drank in every note ; and I believe his
never-to-be-forgotten acting in the play was due to his great
love of the heavenly music that pervaded it. The overture
(Landon Ronald conducted for us on the first night) was the C
minor Symphony. I had told him of Beethoven's own inter-
pretation of those thrice-repeated tragic notes. " So Fate
knocks at the door," he used to murmur as he listened, enchanted.
The rest of the music was :

As entr'actes : — " Coriolan " and " Leonora."

As incidental music : — The Moonlight Sonata.

The Fifth Symphony.
The String Quartet (Opus 59).
The song " Adelaida."
Parts of the Ninth Symphony —

and, as Beethoven was dying, the " Ode to Joy " from the Choral
Symphony. What a feast for music-lovers ! Sweet Evelyn
d'Alroy of golden voice and serene and spirituelle personality,
was the heroine. (She died, alas ! a year or two later.) Herbert
loved the part of Beethoven, and it was his fixed intention, had
he lived, to revive the play.

Two more plays, these not adaptations but original one«,
came to us from the pen of Louis Parker, both of which — as
different as the poles — had enormous success. Both in their

HERBERT AND I 147

turn brought grateful grist to a mill which was from time to time
a little rusty. These were Drake and Joseph and his Brethren.
Drake was a breezy, gladsome play, breathing Plymouth Hoe
and a Peak in Darien ; and with one scene — the scene on board
Drake's ship — which was a play, and a beautiful one it itself.
It was grandly acted : Lyn Harding as Drake, Herbert Waring
as Doughty, Amy Brandon Thomas as the maiden, Elizabeth
Sydenham, and Phyllis Neilson-Terry as Queen Elizabeth — a
tour de force from which she, in spite of her girlishness, emerged
triumphantly. This gifted daughter of remarkable parents and
ancestry was only seventeen when she first came to us, playing
Viola at a special matinee to the Sebastian of her father, Fred
Terry (who seemed, indeed, her twin-brother), in one of the most
brilliant representations of this, his famous production of Twelfth
Night, that Herbert ever gave. Phyllis was adorable in the part,
without making us forget Lily Brayton ; adorable as Trilby,
in a sensational revival of that play, without making us forget
Dorothea Baird. But as Desdemona, which she played to Her-
bert's Othello, there can never be her equal. It was, indeed,
a perfect exposition of that part : perfect in poise, in voice, in
gentleness, in beauty ; and her Willow Song was divinely acted
and sung.

There was a great deal of discussion about Herbert's Othello,
and, indeed, about Laurence Irving's Iago. A writer in The
Daily Telegraph (and I think it must have been our good and
cherished friend W. L. Courtney) speaks of Herbert's performance
thus :

" Such, as we understand him, is Shakespeare's Othello.
Such is the man whom, in a performance of rare dignity and
beauty, Sir Herbert Tree portrays. This Othello speaks having
authority, and not as the scribes. He has the habit of com-
mand and great affairs. He is past the passions of youth, as,
indeed, he says. He has not much of the days of gallantry. He
speaks of Desdemona with great tenderness. He treats her with
the gentlest affection. He is plainly all in love with her, but
not after a young man's fashion of love. Through the long
battle with Iago, the slow, irresistible onset of doubt was finely
played. The whole is a performance of great nobility and a
beautiful humanity and tenderness."

io»

148 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

The production (Percy Macquoid and that great scene-painter,
Joseph Harker, rioting among Carpaccio pictures) was of rare
and exquisite beauty. Haunting music by Coleridge Taylor
threaded in and out of the play, accentuating the dream-like
loveliness of the scenery, accenting the passion and pathos and
majesty of the words. I find an amusing letter from Herbert
as to his " make-up " in Othello :

' I think Shakespeare meant Othello to be an Oriental, not
a negro : a stately Arab of the best caste. This colour-question
appears to be a controversial one, and while some Shakespearean
scholars might want Othello to be black, others might want him
to be the colour of a gentleman five-eighths white. Had I made
him piebald, there would still doubtless have been some mis-
giving on the part of my friends the critics."

Allusion to Phyllis Neilson-Terry led me on to write of Othello,
but The Merchant of Venice and Henry VIII. and Macbeth pre-
ceded it. Needless to speak of the entrancing production of what
all the call-boys call The Merchant. (How Herbert and I used to
laugh over the familiar stage-clipping of the titles of plays —
The Merchant, The Wives, The Ado, The Dream, Henry! We
were always expecting it to come down to one syllable : Mac,
Ham and Oth ; but in this we were disappointed.) Talking of
call-boys, what a loyal, lion-hearted race ! How eager, how
sympathetic, how helpful ! At least, it was ever so in Herbert's
theatre.

Herbert made the setting of The Merchant of Venice a dream
of loveliness, though naturally it cannot have surpassed Sir
Henry Irving's memorable and poetic production. Herbert had
one very wondrous effect of music, however, which was new and
strange and compelling : the beautiful Jewish hymn that was
lifted up, sonorously and religiously, against the light music
of the revell

Ellen Terry's never-to-be-forgotten Portia (to Herbert her
performance long ago with the Bancrofts : to me her performance
with Henry Irving) had spoilt us both for all ensuing Portias ;
nothing came up to our ideal. The nearest, strangely enough,
was our daughter Viola, who acted the part once or twice only

HERBERT AND I 149

in a Shakespeare Festival. After that she left the " legitimate "
stage to study for the operatic stage — to Herbert's disappoint-
ment and regret. He always said, " Viola would have made
a great actress." Well, there is yet time to prove the truth of
his half-humorous, half-earnest aphorism, " / am always right."
And Herbert's Shylock ? Picturesque, passionate, long-suffer-
ing ; by turns majestic and debased — he breathed the very
spirit of the Jew of the Middle Ages. Alternately he provoked
great pity and great scorn, and his large, wistful eyes seemed
to reveal the long, tragic history of a persecuted race. In the
earlier scenes and in the Trial scene — oh, marvellous present-
ment ! — his acting was superb. (One need not say how he looked
— he was Shylock.) In the scene where he mourns Jessica's
treachery, his conception was one of genius : he strewed ashes
on his head, he lay writhing, moaning in the dust. Yet, on the
whole, I preferred Irving's Shylock, of the two great and memor-
able presentments. Martyr — Jewish martyr — though he made
him (which could not have been Shakespeare's intention), his
performance was undeviatingly picturesque, majestic and com-
pelling. It was religious.

On the other hand (since I have ventured upon comparison),
Herbert's Wolsey in Henry VIII. was far finer than Irving's :
more dread, more grand, more poignant. No character in Shake-
speare suited him better than this. It was greatly conceived,
greatly acted. The towering figure of Herbert Tree's Wolsey
must for ever remain a brilliant memory.

Percy Macquoid was Herbert's right hand in this production
— Henry VIII. — which, I think, in spite of its vast expenses,
was the greatest of all Herbert's Shakespearean successes. Mrs.
Macquoid, too, was enormously helpful, embroidering with her
own hands the tablecloths for the great Banquet scene, and,
if the truth were known, doubtless fashioning with those same
clever hands the gorgeous golden plate with which the long tables
groaned.

Arthur Bourchier can never have made a more palpable hit
than in his splendidly royal, royally roystering Henry VIII.,
and Violet Vanbrugh surely touched the highest point of her art
in her grand and beautiful Queen Katherine. Rich and glowing
production and acting of that richest, most glowing play — it

150 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

brought, in addition to its monetary advantage, a time of singular
sympathy and contentment and graciousness — at home as well
as in the theatre ; and I think we owed this in a great measure
to the gentle yet strong personality of Violet Vanbrugh, whose
lovableness and sensibility were strong enough to radiate happi-
ness far and wide.

I confess that I did not think the part of Macbeth would
suit Herbert (not that I had ever seen a Macbeth whom I thought
ideal). But he could not be satisfied until he had essayed it,
having a great love and reverence for the play. Accordingly he
gave it, and gave one of his most wonderful productions. I did
not tell him (or perhaps I did) how astounded I was at his Macbeth
in the first three acts. (The last act demands a soldier, and that
Herbert never succeeded in portraying.) But the scenes with the
Witches, the Murder scene, the Banquo's ghost scene — these
were rendered with a wild, tragic intensity, a very fury of the
driven mind that made one's blood run cold. That is the essen-
tial effect that a great Macbeth must make : to make the blood
run cold ! And the wistful, distraught face, the wistful, dis-
traught voice in those immortal soliloquies : these were great
acting, if ever acting was great.

Herbert and I once saw in Paris (Edifius Rex acted by Mounet-
Sully ; it was one of the most memorable theatrical experiences of
our lives. Of all actors, the Mounet-Sully of those days alone,
to my mind, could give an ideal presentment of Macbeth, and I
think Herbert thought this too. But would even Mounet-Sully
have looked the wild and tragic, withal royal figure of a Northern
King as Herbert did ?

And our holidays ? They were for ever changing ; and before
trying to unravel the tangled skein of them, I ought to say that
Herbert's idea of a holiday was to work harder than ever. For
instance, during the run of Offenbach's Orfee aux Enjers (yes,
Herbert was the first to revive Offenbach), in 1912, he took no
rest : he merely plunged into a new adventure. After waging
fierce war for years against the incrusion of the music halls into
the kingdom of the theatre, suddenly, upon the altering of a
comma in the law relating to both, Herbert made the amende

HERBERT AND I 151

honorable by consenting to appear at the Palace Theatre in a
sketch ! (It should perhaps be called the amende honorarium,
for he charged the recipients of his generosity one thousand pounds
a week.) He chose Kinsey Peile's adaptation of Rudyard Kip-
ling's lovely story, " The Man Who Was." The luridness, pathos
and intensely dramatic nature of the little half-hour play —
together with wonderful acting on the part of Herbert — made it
a sensational success. (I have used that adjective " sensational "
too often ; but I cannot find another word for the many successes
Herbert had that set the Box Office humming and the world
hurrah-ing.)

Having still time on his hands, he must needs take ship for
Egypt (a ship, by the by, which made, to the utmost limit of the
land, an overland route. Oh, would that flying had been the
vogue in his day ! — how his soul would have soared with the
machine !). And he did not scour the desert or confiscate Cairo
out of idleness. For his work's sake he wanted to know some-
thing of the yellows and blues, the jewelled dawns and spacious
nights of the East.

Then, again, when Drake set him free, for he did not act in
it, he first of all made a little tour in the provinces with The Man
Who Was, and then rushed off to Germany via Paris, seeing plays,
seeing theatres, seeing, as it seemed to us, a whole new world in
the little space of fourteen days. Then Christmas comes — one
of our wonderful Christmases, ever to be treasured in our memory,
at Belvoir Castle. There our whole family was wont to be
welcomed, feasted, made much of, royally entertained, year after
year, for many happy years. Ah ! what love, what sweetness,
what jollity, what perfection of hospitality we found there !
And scarcely had Herbert finished his Belvoir plum-pudding
(like all nice men, he loved puddings and pies), than he started
on a one- week's visit to New York and Boston — this not " for
fun," though no doubt he had heaps of fun, but to see a play,
and to negotiate for a possible season there. That magic-carpet
of an exploit at an end, he must needs set out for Russia —
taking with him his stage-manager, Stanley Bell, and sending
telegrams from time to time, such as : " Moscow. — So lovely
here ; why not all come ? " Or : " St. Petersburg. — Cannot you
and Viola meet me Vienna ? " Such were his lightning ideas of

152 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

lightning travel. He called this snatched voyaging of his " com-
pleting his neglected education." It was really part of his rest-
less, resistless energy ; of a yearning, that knew no bounds, to
know, to see, to encompass.

Herbert's return to work meant the production of a new
play, which happened to be a complete failure ; and the inaugura-
tion of a month's Shakespeare Festival, in which, besides acting
nearly all his usual parts, it pleased him to learn and play Mer-
cutio to Phyllis Terry's Juliet. But he and I had seen an in-
comparable Mercutio in Charles Coghlan, and though he may
have satisfied the public, I know he did not satisfy himself.

In the autumn of 1913 he produced Louis Parker's Joseph
and his Brethren — ineffable, immortal story ! — which, although a
Biblical subject, was, to the astonishment of all the world except
Herbert, who willed it so, licensed by the Lord Chamberlain.
This play was — I must not say " sensational " again ! — a delirious
success ; beyond the wildest dreams of author and producer.
And no wonder ! All the old Miracle plays and Mystery plays
were set before us in this reverent melodrama, this sumptuous
setting of a Psalm. It has been said that a play is always a
success if it has appearing in it a dumb animal. This would
account for the super-success of Joseph and his Brethren, for the
Ark was ransacked to people its scenes — camels, oxen, sheep,
asses and goats used to jostle one another in Charles Street, to the
delight of the " queues " and to the gratuitous enjoyment of the
passers-by. Wild beasts, too, were not wanting in their prowl ;
but they, as someone said, were visible, though startlingly visible,
only to the ear.

Herbert and I besieged Bushey (where she lived) and the Ritz
Hotel (where she resided) in order to induce beautiful, brilliant
Maxine Elliott, our loved friend, to undertake the part of Poti-
phar's wife. Who in the end ever said 'No' to Herbert?
She came to us, and irradiated wickedness, tempered by so much
loveliness as served to satisfy the severest censor. Herbert,
needless to say, made a grand figure of Jacob — majestic, patri-
archal, instinct with sacred and sublime dignity. Alas ! I
used to say to him : " Why be ninety till you arc ninety ? " He
would answc , " It is better to be ninety when one is fifty than
to be fifty when one is ninety." The play, its exquisite produc-

HERBERT AND I 153

tion, the difficulties of its being allowed, and the intrinsic beauty
of the work itself had enormous reclame, and it rilled His Majesty's
for many months.

It was so like Herbert to dart from silver-bearded, majestic,
patriarchal Jacob to flippant, solemn, ultra-modern, exuberantly
vital Henry Higgins in Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion. But Herbert
flung away his harp without a sigh, and eagerly put up the um-
brella that stamped the new Wimpole Street hero. How well I
remember the reading of Pygmalion in the Dome, and my pas-
sionate eagerness that Herbert should accept it ! He needed
little persuasion ; the only doubt in his mind was whether he
should play Dolittle, the Dustman, or the hero. It was I who
insisted that, because no one on the stage could have acted the
Dustman as he would have, yet that it was too obvious ; and that
the original and unexpected thing was that he should be Pygma-
lion. Oh, and how right I was ! The play was produced and had
phenomenal success— as it deserved, for it was a wonderful play,
brimming with wit, brimming with drama. There were terrible
scenes at rehearsals. Every day Herbert and Bernard Shaw and
Mrs. Patrick Campbell used to turn one another out of the theatre
and shake its dust off their feet forever. But the next morning
saw them at eleven o'clock, serene in countenance and as polished
in manners as in boots, there having been no sanguinary
yesterday.

Pygmalion seemed as though it would run for ever ; but
Herbert brought it to an end the third week in July, 1914, for at
last he felt himself in need of actual rest. He made a faint attempt
to arrange that someone should fill his place, but Mrs. Patrick
Campbell had left the cast ; so the play was put upon the shelf
to be revived, and Herbert set out, in a new car, to drive all the
way to Marienbad. Luckily for him, and for us all, he never
reached his destination. The yearly grace of these three weeks
at Marienbad was always granted Herbert by his exigent family ;
but after that he was bound by iron chains to join us wherever
the children and I had pitched our tent.

I had a passion for taking houses — houses which we used to
rent, and which were for ever being sold over our heads ; so that
my mad nomadicity was my misfortune rather than my fault.

154 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

For two years we had a house, adored by the children, at Bran-
caster (that is where Alan and Viola met) ; for a year at Rotting-
dean ; for two years on the river at Sutton Courtney ; and at
last (we have it still) a rambling house in Sussex, whose space and
solitude were congenial to Herbert, as were the bosky dells
and sheep-trimmed fields that surrounded it. Ah ! I can see
him now, amazed and enchanted at millions of mushrooms, which
he gathered with eager care and boylike ambition to win our
game, " Whoever sees them first has the most." It amuses
me to remember why, after a mere cottage and a barn at Sutton
Courtney, I persuaded myself to take this enormous house at
Robertsbridge. There had been a command gala performance
at the theatre, and Herbert had had it decorated with thousands
of noble swags made of laurel leaves and of golden and coloured
fruits. The effect in majestic His Majesty's had been wonder-
fully beautiful, and I grieved to think such glory should be
scrapped. So I conceived the idea of buying all those beautiful
Italian wreaths and ropes, and set about finding a place to put
them. Glottenham, with its long corridors and many spacious
rooms, had evidently been built for them ; and it was settled.
Alas ! I took the house before I bid for the wreaths — found
they had been sold for thirty pounds to the man who made
them (I think they cost a thousand pounds) — and I could only
secure three. But those three are the making of one room to this
day. It used to please Herbert to see them ; indeed, that one
should admire and cherish and remind him of things that had
been a careless, unremembered stroke of genius to him always
gave him intense pleasure.

Here at Glottenham Herbert put together his book," Thoughts
and Afterthoughts," a task which must have been onerous,
but which caused him only unmitigated pleasure. Indeed,
he took great pride and delight in authorship, and during the
last fortnight of his life he was planning a new edition of a com-
bination of both his books, "Thoughts and Afterthoughts "
and " Nothing Matters." I need not say that we shall try to
carry out his wishes.

To Glottenham, when June nights were so short that twilight
merely faded into dawn, from time to time Herbert and I would
make our way after the theatre, to join a " children's week-end."

Photo by]

"HAMLET."

[IK. & D. Downey.

HERBERT AND 1«5

Evelyn Beerbohm, Patrick Shaw Stewart, Billy Grenfell, Edward
Horner, Dennis Anson — dear, blessed, sacred names — you were
among the children.

One of " Maud's Follies," as they had come unkindly to be
called, was a house I took because it was on the Seine (insane,
said Herbert), because it was pure Louis Quatorze and absolutely
beautiful, because it was " nothing a year ' (like so many of
our houses) — and because it was wise that the children should
learn the art of French fishing. At the time I took the exquisite
and elusive Maison du Canal I was acting in Diplomacy ;
therefore it was only by travelling through Saturday night that
I was able to devote Sunday to furnishing it. This I was per-
fectly content to do ; and by the summer-time Viola and Alan,
Felicity and Iris were able to be there, Herbert joining them on
his way home from Marienbad. They had a new and gladsome
time, painting the little village of Pont de l'Arche red with their
exploits and despoiling the Seine of its trout. It was impossible
for me to go to stay until the following summer (1914), and we had
not been there ten days before the War broke out. The return
of four of us and of four scared English servants was difficult of
accomplishment and full of adventure ; so much so that I was
left behind alone on the quay at Dieppe (where panic-stricken
holiday-enders had been sitting on their luggage for four days).
I rejoiced at the delay because of the divine welcome Herbert
gave me when, the next night, anxious and solicitous, he met
me at Victoria.

His adventures when the War broke out were told me recently
in a letter from Sam, our good and faithful chauffeur, some of
which I quote :

"August, 1917.

' About the trip to Marienbad, or as far as we got. You
can, I hope, piece together from me one or two things I remember.
The dates you must verify, as I can't recollect them. We started
the Monday at 8, crossed that night, arriving Sunday 8 a.m.
back at Charing Cross (evidently went to fetch the car from
France). We stopped Monday Folkestone, crossed over and
motored to St. Quentin Tuesday, and spent the night there. I
worked till 2 in the morning, so I remember that well. ... I was

156 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

up early swearing at the waiter, and with every d he brought

another roll. Sir Herbert (he'd just come in) said I had better
leave off, or we should have all the bread there was. The French
were very excited, and in the Hotel all were wondering what Sir
Edward Grey would do. So Sir Herbert wired to London to Mr.
Langton to know if we should proceed — the answer to be sent
to Longwey. We left St. Quentin at 10 a.m., and there was
plenty of excitement in a small town (?) where we had lunch
between St. Quentin and Longwey. A run in the banks, numer-
ous peasant women taking things to market and gossiping outside
cafes. At the Customs (Longwey) the French had a chain and
an armed guard twenty strong. The Germans had only one man,
and there were no signs of any military movement till we got as
far as Colbing. We called at the Post Office — no telegram, so we
left word to forward to Luxembourg. But we never got it. In
the Luxembourg Hotel and garage everybody talked of war. Sir
Herbert said we were too civilized, and it would never come.
' A political game ' he called it, or something like that. The
Germans said ' they were ready ' and ' in nine days in Paris.'
They said we had the Suffragettes and the Irish question to keep
us out. Everybody was calm and confident and smiling — quite
the reverse from the French. In the French hotels they said they
were better prepared than in 1871. We left Luxembourg German
Customs for Frankfort — a good day's run. We saw lots of lancers
and noticed guards on the bridges. The waiter, where we had
lunch, tried to argue the point. He knew they would go to war,
and it would all end in two months ; he was in the ' Carlton,' so
he knew Sir Herbert. We arrived in Frankfort late on Thursday
evening ; the next day, Friday, we were starting, late — eleven
o'clock — for a short run. On Friday morning I had the car
washed, and I greased and fitted up. The town was seething with
excitement. Boys delivered newspapers every half-hour free,
I believe, announcing the latest. One that caused a lot, I remem-
ber, because the German proprietor of the garage told me the
British Fleet had sailed for an unknown destination. Everybody
came into the streets ; in fact, they must have had a presenti-
ment, for that seemed to sober them a bit. I went round at
ten — Sir Herbert was in bed ; round again at eleven ; Sir Herbert
still in bed, so I went to his room. I had had a talk with the

HERBERT AND I 157

garage proprietor and I knew he was pumping me as to where we
were going, because I told him a hotel in Luxembourg we never
intended stopping at, and he informed me where we did stay.
I told Sir Herbert the people were very excited, in fact worse
than yesterday, and that the Russians had all gone home three
days before. Lots of people — English — had left the hotel, going
back home by the 8 train. He at last said he supposed he must
get up, and I told him I was in favour of going home. He won-
dered why ! We had no telegram, but we suddenly thought of
going to see the British Consul, and he took a cab there. I had
got the car round when he returned — ' half an hour.' He came
up and said we were going home. Shots had been exchanged with
France, and we could not get a train. He pointed to his breast
and said, ' I can't tell you — something seemed to break inside
me when I heard it was war — wicked ! — wicked ! — wicked ! '
I tried to make him have something to eat, but he could not, and
he hardly finished his coffee. We got the luggage down and
started, intending as the British Consul advised, to make for
Holland or Belgium. We had a good run for an hour ; then the
car fell away. We had some beer and a piece of bread and cheese
to save time while the engine cooled. We put in a gallon of lubri-
cating oil and decided that we must go slower or the car would
let us down. I wished we had a good English car now ; but we
dared not go faster then as the loss of oil varied. The road was
most of way by the Rhine, but after the first three bridges (I
am doubtful of the name, but a fairly large town) I was pulled
up by soldiers with fixed bayonets. After a few sentences, Sir
Herbert got out and started walking over the bridge. An officer
climbed on the footboard and signalled me to go on — two soldiers

in the back with fixed bayonets. So I said ' I am d d if I

drive this lot,' but Sir Herbert looked round and beckoned me to
go over the bridge. The officer said ' Don't swear ' — so I asked
him if we were at war. He said ' No ' and he hoped we never
should be ; but all cars were escorted over bridges so that they
could not blow them up. The same was said to Sir H.
when he came up. We were stopped now once every ten
miles for our passports. I kept them handy as they sprang
up and got their guns ready, and I've since thought they were
loaded.

158 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

" We arrived in Cologne about 10 — but before we got there
I nearly ran over a child. It started across the road, and just
missed it. The crowd ran for stones, but we did not stop. On
the road children threw several stones, but only one or two hit
the car. They also threw stones at it while we had tea, but they
waved hands when we went. There were only a few dents in the
panel. The crowd proceeding to the railway station made it
impossible to get along faster than two miles an hour. I found
afterwards it was to see the troops go by ; they were running
through to France across a suspension bridge. We put up at a
hotel a hundred yards off the railway station. Hotel Hoff or
Koff. The place was so densely packed that it must have been
half an hour — but it seemed ages to me, as I was certain I had a
very little petrol and the engine had been running a long time.
The mounted police did not worry about us, and I managed
slowly to push through. They boo-ed a bit, but some sang
songs ; in fact, they were a very light-hearted crowd. I went
out (Sir H. was in the newspapers and was very anxious to get
hold of an English paper) ; but was advised to go back to the
hotel. A double-engine train ran every three minutes all night ;
at least, I went to bed at one, and at five they were still
running.

" I was up early next morning and went to the garage (five
o'clock) and ordered petrol. I knew they were putting up the
price, but the garage proprietor had lost all the English in the
night. After trying to make him understand he condescended to
inform me that I should get no petrol. I fetched the hotel
proprietor. The Government had prohibited the sale from
10 p.m. the night before ! I reported to Sir Herbert and he at
once decided that the train was the only thing. I went to the
station, and the only train was eight— -doubtful when another
would start. We left the car in charge of the hotel proprietor,
bought our tickets, and I saw all the luggage into the omnibus
except mine, and that they would not bring, so I brought it
myself. We walked to the station and we carried some of the
luggage each, for the two men from the hotel to follow with the
rest. Sir H. met a lady and gentleman (French) in the carriage.
I can't remember their names, but ' a most wonderful lady '
wrote a marvellous article on the Suffragette question — against,

HERBERT AND I 159

I believe. They came from Berlin, and both were very much
upset. I believe she was some great artist in the theatre, or some-
thing, as I believe she said ' Herbert Tree ! ' when we went in.
I waited several minutes till afraid the train would go. I said
the luggage was not come yet, so we rushed outside the station,
and the omnibus was starting back with our bags in it ! Sir
Herbert was in a rage. Their excuse was (I believe it was the
last train out) they thought we were going by a later train ;
but from their manner it was a case of we were in a hurry and
they intended keeping it. We had to detrain and carry our
luggage, coats and rugs. A sovereign got us help towards the
last hundred yards. How we toiled with that load of luggage !
We had to walk nearly half a mile to go through the farce of
being chalked, ' Pass the Customs.'

" We parted with the lady and gentleman at Brussels ; I
believe they were going to Paris. We had two or three lunches
in the dining-car and several coffees ; the waiters seemed deter-
mined that we should not rest awhile. The corridors were packed
with luggage and people — Americans, the greater part, and some
noisy French students singing. Sir H. was greatly interested
in a woman's case : English — three daughters married to German
soldiers. She was coming to draw her money — a good round
sum — and go back to Germany. She had lived long enough in
Germany to believe them invincible. She admitted we had a
Navy. Sir H. could not eat or drink any more, so he got the
attendant to find seats so that he could get along to the front
of the train. The attendant came back and started me off (out-
side the train) with two dressing-cases, coats and rugs. Off went
the train, and I jumped in with the coats, expecting the porter
would throw the dressing-cases in — but no. We sailed out and I
saw them on the platform beside the porter. We eventually got
them sent down. Arriving at Ostend, the boat had sailed. So
we had to wait till n p.m. Saturday night. We had a fine
crossing and arrived at daybreak in Dover Harbour.

' Those are all the incidents that I remember, and of course
this is just dodged in, so excuse the way I have put it.

" Sir H. said that the time would come when the man who
made war would be the first in the firing line ; London would be
in flames, and all the best and strongest gone. He meant that

160 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

by killing the robust and healthy, the nations of Europe would
degenerate. We saw an old man mowing corn, and he painted
a picture from that as we rushed in the train across Belgium.
' One man to have the means to send so many as food for
powder ! '

" Yours respectfully,

" Sam Wordingham."

CHAPTER VII

Only the very young could ever know real happiness again
after the outbreak of the War — a War that made through four
long years a path to victory indeed ; but a path paven with
broken hearts. The best, the dearest, the greatest ; the flower
of England's manhood were falling like leaves in autumn ; and
many a great-hearted gentleman, though never a soldier, grieved
and was jostled until he joined the loved, lost heroes who gave
their lives in battle ; they climbed the steep ascent of Heaven ;
he followed in their train.

Although theatrical London, for the first few days after the
declaration of war, was fairly panic-stricken, Herbert kept his
head, and immediately opened his theatre with the most patriotic
play he had — Drake, acting in it himself. Thus was he able
to give instant employment to a large number of people, and thus
by giving all the profits to War Charities, with the generous
co-operation of his author, Louis Parker, and his company, to
render service to his country from the first. But we were all
sick at heart. Too well we knew that there were grim and
terrible days to come. After Drake, Henry IV. seemed likely to
be in the spirit of the time, and Herbert revived it, but not with
great success. I remember that on the first night of that, Lady
Randolph Churchill, who was in my box, whispered to me of the
fall of Brussels.

Thus passed the first half-year of the War, with its mornings
ushered in for us by the glad, gay singing of a Flying Corps in
training, whose route lay past our windows — mornings feverish
with anxiety to see beyond the official news, the unofficial pro-
phecies ; days that were made both sorrowful and glorious with
the coming and going of ever-increasing khaki legions. One
saw them swinging through the streets, a prayer on one's lips

e6i ii

162 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

and that shy, furtive waving of a half-concealed, tear-soaked
handkerchief which said in plainest English : " You are our
glory and our hope, but we don't want to upset you or ourselves
by letting you know it."

Love and anxiety for those who fought for us make us all try
to usher little shafts of light — endurance, self-sacrilice, added
pitifulness and courtesy and devoutness — into our characters and
life ; the very expression upon people's faces changed into some-
thing lovelier and more loving. The spint of those who could
only stand and wait was a fine and noble one. Whether in all
cases it endured to the end, who shall say ? Confession may be,
but I do not think that reaction is good for the soul.

In the spring there came, in spite of heavy news, a kind of
revival of life and spirits ; a " give-the-boys-a-good-time-before-
they-go-out " idea, and theatres began to be fuller now. Herbert
gave a wonderful presentment of David Copperfield (adapted
by Louis Parker), in which he doubled the parts of ' Dan'l
Peggotty " and " Micawber." This tour de force cost him not
one instant's anxiety ; he slipped from one part to the other
with amazing lightness and facility. It was a great success.

And in the winter of 1915 Herbert went to America — bitterly,
how bitterly against my will ! But afterwards I learnt to think
that he was able to do better work for his country there than
here — indeed, it was allowed him by the great ones of the earth
that he had done splendid things for the united cause in the
United States, as the following letters show.

" April 3rd, 1917.
" My dear Tree,

" Very many thanks for your letter and for the enclosed
extracts from your speeches. You have been doing very useful
work, and you will rejoice, as we do here, that a decision has at
last been taken, and that America has finally decided to come
in and join us in this stupendous struggle for freedom.

" Yours sincerely,

" D. Lloyd George.
" Sir Herbert Tree."

HERBERT AND I 163

" March 30th, 1917.
" Dear Sir Herbert,

" I am much obliged to you for sending me reports
of your speeches. Allow me heartily to congratulate you on the
success of your efforts at this critical moment in the history of
the English-speaking world.

" Yours sincerely,

" Arthur Balfour."

" Thou goest ; to what distant place

Wilt thou thy sunlight carry.
I stay with chill and clouded face :

Ah ! how long wilt thou tarry ?
Where'er thou goest morn will be •
Thou leavest night and gloom to me."

This unknown, half-forgotten poem, which he used to love, goes
on : " Bid souls of eager men awake ; Be kind and bright and
tender." And it exactly applies to him. When he left us, taking
our youngest daughter, Iris, with him, taking with him his kind-
ness and brightness and tenderness, taking the glint of his en-
thusiasm and eagerness and hopefulness, days became drab and
dreary ; in very truth he left night and gloom to me. (By the
way, how he hated, all his life, things drab — thoughts, days,
intentions, points of view : he wanted light and colour. The
accompaniment of a little song of mine pleased him, because
" It is so blue," he used to say.)

He came home for a few weeks in the autumn of 1916 ; came
home in spite of our beseechings that he would take no such risk
— for the submarine menace grew graver and graver. Contracts
had been made in America that demanded his return, so it was a
mere visit ; one of his tread-mill holidays. He came in the very
heart of the Zeppelin fury — a fury which found him absolutely
calm and unafraid — he, who all his life had had childish, uncon-
querable terror of someone stealing up behind him in the dark !
I remember that one night (the night that the Lyceum and the
Gaiety Theatres and many another building had wrack and ruin
dealt them) Iris and I left him at All Souls Place, as he wanted to
stay at home and work, starting ourselves for the Haymarket

164 HERBERT BEERBOIIM TREE

Theatre to see Henry Ainley in Quinney's. In the middle of the
second act the dread sounds began which meant death, horror and
destruction, here, there and everywhere. My first thought was :
" Oh, why did we leave poor Herbert alone ? " Five minutes
later he was in our box, having rushed through the known and
unknown dangers of the streets ; perfectly heedless of himself
— only eager to know that others were safe. Yes ; how strange
an anomaly ! It was agony to Herbert to be startled — he would
implore one not to startle him. In the presence of real danger
or crisis there never was a braver man.

He was extraordinarily practical too, though the unthinking,
unknowing called him " vague." Having learnt, or having
appeared to learn, nothing, he could, at all events in his own
profession, teach every man his trade. (Yes, he could even tell
by touch an antique from a " fake " ; someone had idly told
him the test, and when the time came he was ready with it.)
He used, half bitterly and half excusingly, to cry out at rehearsal
— when " properties " went wrong — when handles would not
turn ; pistols would not go off ; thunder would not sound ;
snow would not fall ; mountains would not be removed ; Hell
would know no fury (as in Faust) : " There is nothing one cannot
do oneself better than the man whose work it is to do it."

Herbert had no learning — had small Latin and no Greek — had
read none of the books of science, philosophy, poetry, fiction, that
other people live by, yet his instinct was so sure that he knew
things. He was like an inspired Water-finder. With a desert
of unexplored knowledge stretching about him, he always lighted
on the little spring that gave the very draught he sought. If
one quoted a good line to him, he would catch it up, repeat it,
and never forget it. How proud I was if something that I told
him turned itself to his use ! Yet he did not know what every
child might know. On the day before his death he took from my
hands Dr. Bridge's " Spirit of Man," which does not name the
poets as it quotes. He read such an one as " Hail to thee, blithe
spirit ! " or " Fair Attic shape," or " He prayeth best who loveth
best ; ' and musingly said : " That is lovely — I wonder who
wrote it ! "

I used to say that he read but two novels during the whole
of our married life : " Tcss " and " Without Dogma " (though

HERBERT AND I 165

once on a motor journey to Margate he was absorbed in, and
nearly finished, " The Card "). There may have been half a
dozen more, but " Tess " and " Without Dogma ' were Her-
bert's two novels. He must have mastered Dickens as a boy,
for, though I never saw him read one, he seemed to be familiar
with all Dickens' books. I do not believe he ever consistently
read Thackeray, yet Colonel Newcome came as second nature
to him, and all the names — Pendennis and Rawdon Crawley,
Philip and Esmond, and the Four Georges — were as household
words to him.

I find myself drifting into an analysis of Herbert's habit
of mind. A foolish flow of thought, for love and reverence
must ever needs blot out the faults and magnify the qualities
of those we mourn, be they many or few. Indeed, of so great
a man I could almost wish that his enemy, rather than his most
loving friend, should appraise him. Kind and wise and generous ;
gifted, far-seeing to the extent of being in advance of his time ;
eager, affectionate, charitable ; strong, undaunted, original,
of a great brain and of a child's heart — these must be allowed
him, even by his detractors : " The enemies of Caesar shall say
this." Amid scholars, Herbert was never uneducated ; amid
wits, he always shone. Among the simple, he was the most
simple and understanding ; among " Our Betters " he was ever
at his ease. His conscious dignity and pride forbade that marplot
to good manners, shyness. Yet he had deference and reverence,
and that inestimable humility which is governed by self-posses-
sion. He was neither iconoclast, socialist, nor revolutionary,
though he affected so shabby a greatcoat that he was often accused
of being all three. No ; he was to a great extent actually con-
ventional— with a convention often put out of court by whim-
sicality and bubbling, irresistible humour. To those who
loved him, his approbation was the most precious prize that
could be dealt ; his rebuke broke one's heart. This was because
he possessed, to an inordinate degree, Taste and Judgment.
His taste was fine and delicate. Things coarse and ugly in conduct
or idea were abhorrent to him ; they caused him a visible shudder
of disgust. Long, long before the War, he declared that the
domination of the execrable and the obscene in one of the leading
capitals of the world was destined to undermine the civilization

166 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

of mankind. He was proved right. And many years ago he
said of Alsace-Lorraine : " Ah, yes, the children of Alsace learn
their lessons in German ; but they say their prayers in French ! '

His judgment about the things of life (not about things
theatrical, for he was often in fault in casting, in choosing plays
and in rejecting plays — he has been known to refuse at least
four of the greatest successes of his day) seemed always unerring
to us. Severe, almost puritanical, yet always, if possible, on
the side of joy, it became a household proverb with us : " Daddy
shall decide." If, as too often happened, we acted without that
decision, we were ill at ease, for there was always his own proverb
— ridiculously and pertinaciously true : "I am always right."

Thus it came that to win his approval, to shine in his eyes,
made splendour of any success ; to merit his scorn or disapproval,
simply blackened life. To this day I remember the lash of his
words when, carelessly as was too often my wont, I put on indis-
criminate feathers and furbelows for a certain part, and went
to his dressing-room crying, not without expectant complacence :
" Is this the period ? What do I look like ? ' He answered,
looking up from his own quiet, careful toilet : "A mad woman
of any period."

Ah ! but the guerdon of his praise, how sweet ! If rare,
how far the richer, making worthless the guerdon of others !
Not any applause or adulation that ever reached me have the
pride and joy that he bestowed (during the last fortnight of his
life) : " That interview of yours last June was the very best
theatrical interview I ever read." I am ashamed to record such
trivial things ; but they are bound about my heart.

My heart — oh ! that it could give words to the lovely,
splendid life he gave me ; to the rich and joyous years I owed
to him !

" Love made me Poet
And this I writ.
My Hearte did do it
And not my Witte."

Alas ! love has made me no poet ; but my Hearte cries out
that in all my long life I never had a sorrow until I had the
sorrow of Herbert's death. There were troubles, vexations,
anxieties, jars and frets, shadows of the sorrows of others ;

HERBERT AND I 167

these were as passing clouds that darkened for an hour a
sunny, glorious life ; but until I lost Herbert, I never knew
a real sorrow. Only his leaving me made me acquainted with
grief. Can love and gratitude give greater tribute ?

Whitsuntide, 1918.

It was on Whit Sunday, a year ago, that you arrived in London
from America, my Herbert. We knew of your landing in Spain,
and of your being on your journey thence to Paris ; but we
were altogether uncertain as to the day and hour of your reaching
London. That is why I did not wait at home for you — with
that superstitious dread (all travel was still dangerous and
uncertain) that if I lingered about for you, you would not come ;
for how eagerly we longed for, how fervently we had prayed for
your safe return ! Thus it came that though Viola was stationed
at her own telephone, I at the telephone at Sutton Courtney,
and Mr. Dana controlling the whole system of telegraphic and
telephonic communication between Madrid and His Majesty's
Theatre — yet, my dear, you arrived in London, and there was
no one to meet you — you who had expected all our glad faces
and glad words to glorify the gloom of Charing Cross Station !
However, I think this momentary disappointment was the only
one you had, for, in mingled triumph and anguish, I recall with
what utter delight you took up the threads of your life in
England — with what a passion of eagerness and fervour you
instantly began to weave them into purpose and achievement.

It was evening — seven o'clock, I think — when, answering
the telephone at Sutton Courtney, I heard your voice. " It's
too good to be true ! " I shouted ; and you answered : ' It's
lovely to be home. Viola is here."

With characteristic eagerness he began at once to tell me of
his adventures on his journey. His voice was gay and full of
energy (a charming telephone voice — what an excellent thing
in man !), and he began at once to thank me for such preparations
as had been made for his home-coming.

And the next day — May the twenty-eighth — Herbert arrived
at Sutton Courtney. Mr. and Mrs. Asquith were our hosts, and
they gave him sweet welcome to the sweetest of all homes in the
sweetest time of the year.

168 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

I remember his calm delight in English May-time. " Lovely '
were the buttercups, the birds, the river and the moonlight-
coloured hedges ; but I always think he cared more for the
achievements of man than the glories of nature. A yellow prim-
rose was little more than a yellow primrose to him ; but he
literally ached with joy over a poem of Raymond Asquith's
which Elizabeth knew by heart. Over and over again he made
her repeat it, revelling in its wit, its cynicism ; dreaming
delightedly over its lines and phrases, and often starting up with
vigorous projects for its being published in America. All the
evening he kept us amused and enchanted ; I felt as though I
had never known him in a mood so boyish and light-hearted ;
but that mood seemed to last on for the rest of his few remaining
summer days on earth. After dinner he was the life and soul
of " parlour-tricks " ; at dinner, the life and soul of the talking.
He had so much to tell — and how blithely he told it ! — of his
last months in America, of the President and Mr. Roosevelt
and Mr. Choate, whom he had lately seen ; of his strange journey
home by devious routes ; of his new role of King's Messenger
from Madrid to London ; of his victorious battle against Military,
Civil and Naval authority at Calais, which ended in his triumphant
journey to Dover, while all officialdom was dooming him to
Southampton via Havre.

During the next fortnight, at home, he seemed to be in daily
delight at the welcome given him. Every hour seemed to bring
him token of how much he was wanted, how much he had been
missed ; and — to my astonishment — for it was unlike him —
he accepted all the invitations showered upon him, and seemed
to have a new-born love for his home. Alas ! alas ! One morning,
as he started forth, he checked his light step upon the stairs,
paused, and said rather wistfully : " What a charming house
this is ! "

Summer weather, many " socialities " — some of which
included me, and some, such as The Pilgrims' Club and The
Other Club, which I used to drive him to (in a taxi, I mean, not
mentally) — made for him delighted days — but they were so
few ! — in which he seemed continually amazed and overjoyed.
He accepted with childish glee and almost deprecating gratitude
the river of welcome that rushed to him.

HERBERT AND I 169

One theatre we went to — The Aristocrat — and he saw George
Alexander for the last time — George Alexander, who, though
very ill that night, insisted upon acting because " Herbert is
coming " ; and we lunched in their delightful house, with the
Charles Wyndhams. We dined one night with the Henrys,
sitting long in the June twilight of their garden, while Herbert,
Sir Charles, Lady Henry and T. P. O'Connor (to whom Herbert
was devoted) kept Carlton House Terrace ringing with their
sallies ; a dinner at the Kennerley Rumfords', where again there
was the garden and sweet and gay discourse, and where after-
wards Clara sang to us. I remember these, but every day and
every hour of his weeks of welcome and project were full of
things that he enjoyed, that he was eager about. Everything
was in train for gladness and such contentment as the War
allowed ; and for what in reality contented him most of all
(though he always declared himself by nature idle — he would
insist that it cost him an effort to be up and doing) — hard work.

Then came his accident, and only seventeen days remained
for him on earth. So slight a thing it seemed, and yet it was
enough to crack that noble heart.

" Not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door,
But 'tis enough, 'twill serve."

Except that it fretted him to be inactive, and that an occasional,
quickly dissipated fear would cross his mind that it would be
longer than a month or two before he walked and danced and
ran, his last days were happy. The moment he was allowed to
see people, to write, to dictate, to talk plans and business, he
took advantage of every possibility, and was with difficulty
persuaded that he could not keep public appointments by being
carried hither and thither. He used to love people coming to
see him, love the flowers and fruit that arrived, love letters and
attentions, and all the petting everybody gave. Sir Alfred Fripp
used to pay him a second, a non-professional, visit every evening
after dinner, and this was always a time of great hilarity for us.

On the actual day of his death he woke unusually early —
at five o'clock— and made himself quite happy, reading, perhaps
for the tenth time, the play he was going to produce — The Great
Lover. He said : "I shall not need to study the part at all ;

170 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

I know it already." He was full of a message which he had
been asked to send to the Russian people, and equally full of
plans for the day and for the morrow, and for many a day ;
but here on earth no new day was to dawn for him.

I am bidden to be glad that his death was sudden ; that
there was no lingering illness, no growing weakness, no dread
of parting, no agony of farewells. Yes, for his sake, I would
have wished that eager flame of life to be put out thus. But oh !
— the years of high endeavour, of happy fulfilment that seemed
to stretch before him — the long road, smooth and wide at last,
that he had set himself to traverse to his goal — how can one
forbear to mourn, knowing his great love of life, to mourn that
these were denied him ? Time and Faith can teach one not to
question, but neither Time nor Faith can teach one not to grieve.

At the operation on his knee, two weeks before his death,
when Herbert knew that he was being put to sleep, and just
before he lost consciousness, he murmured : "I shall see you
again ! "

I treasure this as your message, Beloved — the message you
would have spoken to us had you known, in that July sunset,
that your last, long sleep was hurrying upon you : "I shall see
3'ou again."

MY FATHER

By Viola Tree

July yth, 1917.

Someone, a man who had no particular reason to love him as
we do, said to me : " Your father was quite the most irresistible
man I ever met." That is exactly how I think of him — irresist-
ible, absolutely dominating. From the time when I was little
until now when I am more than grown up, the attitude of blind
obedience and of abandoning all other occupation of the moment
to do his will was absolute, even if in my heart I thought him
wrong ; to me he was always a never-failing excitement, a sur-
prise, an event.

That he was my father was and is wonderful, but somehow
only secondary ; he bore no resemblance, so it seemed to me,
to fathers as a race. We always heard his voice before we saw
him, for he never came into the room, or, in Hampstead and
Chiswick days, into the garden, without calling out loudly and
penetratingly from wherever he was, " Viola ! " or " Children ! '
This had the effect of a flourish of trumpets ; we all dropped our
game or our lesson and ran to find him. I remember him best
standing on the stairs or in the hall, always leaning on some-
thing ; sometimes he leaned on my head — always with his hat
on, and wearing a big flamboyant coat, and carrying some very
tall walking-stick (he had a succession of sticks) in his hand —
he had really beautiful white disproportionately small hands.

Three things stand out clearly in my mind, proving how com-
pletely I was dominated by him, even to the point of casting out
fear.

When I was very little, perhaps about four or five years old,
I had the excitement of bathing with him in the sea for the

171

172 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

first time. I remember him saying to me, " Put your arms round
my neck, dear, and I will swim out with you." Of course I
obeyed, and we started off for the deep water. He then dis-
engaged himself from my clutches and said, " Now float, dear,"
and I immediately and submissively floated.

A year or so later, when I had learnt to ride, the same thing
happened again. It was the first day on which I was allowed
out of the riding-school into Rotten Row, led by the riding-
master on a leading-rein. Hardly had I overcome my first fears
when over the horizon loomed my father on a large bay hireling,
one hand on his hip — a favourite pose of his, even on horseback.
His face lit up on seeing me, and he shouted, " Come on, dear,
come and ride with me." I deserted my troupe, and my leading-
rein, and trotted after him.

Then again, much later in life, as his prospective Ariel in
The Tempest, I had to try the " wires " for the first time, and
was timidly discussing with the professional on which foot to
' take off." The wire was, I remember, uncomfortably hooked
into my strait waistcoat, when he walked on to the stage. ' I
always know about these things, dear ; don't argue : fly ! " and
he gave the order to the mechanic up above to let go. Without
a murmur I flew, my feet dangling high above his head, and
tingling like telegraph-wires at the sudden vibrations of his voice.
" Very good, dear ; now sing ! " Up, up, towards the pro-
scenium I soared, and managed, though with sinking heart,
quaveringly to sing the first bars of " Where the bee sucks."

He hated hesitation or delay : " Are you coming along,
dear ? " was his invariable formula. I would temporize feebly
with " Where to, Daddy ? " " Oh, just out," he would say, but
we found he always had a destination, and that destination the
theatre.

About the time of the swimming incident we took a house on
Hampstead Heath — rather a large house with a big garden and
a lawn, overlooking many miles of green fields then unspotted
by villas. I was still an only child, and therefore a spoilt child :
all my mother's and father's holidays were planned for my
pleasure, and their playtime was my playtime. Evenings,
before they started for the theatre, and Sundays — always Sun-
days— were my great occasions. Sometimes they spoilt me to

MY FATHER 173

the extent of allowing me the grand treat of staying with them
at Garlant's Hotel, which seemed to me a heaven of dissipation.
It abutted on the old Haymarket Theatre, and he would go
there for a night or two when his work kept him up too late for
him to get back to Hampstcad. He was ill there once with
bronchitis, contracted on a terribly snowy night when he had
to walk up the frozen hill, at which the one cab-horse rebelled.
This was the only time I ever saw him ill ; other people may
remember that from time to time he had transitory illnesses,
but I am sure this was the only time he was in bed for more
than a few days : certainly no actor ever climbed to fame by
filling the post of his understudy.

He was always desperately anxious that I should be truthful,
and that I should never ask for money or presents. Once, in the
kitchen-garden, I remember walking in abject misery behind
him and my mother, who were discussing me in low tones, and
she was crying because I had told a kind of lie about how many
gooseberries I had eaten.

It was not really a lie, only apathy in counting the goose-
berries, but he thought that just as bad, and they both decided
not to forgive me that night. I went to bed in the terrible misery
of children who can never argue because they have not the
vocabulary, nor reason because they have not the experience ;
but in the end my father came up very late in the night with
a plate of some nice thing or other from his supper.

The most beautiful of all young actresses came to see him
to be engaged, perhaps for her first part. She had her pocket
full of pennies, and as she strolled on the lawn I ran along by her
side, and she offered them to me. After terrible misgivings
I took them, but guiltily showed them to my father. His eyes
became thunder-cloud blue, and he said almost fiercely : " You
didn't ask for them, did you ? "

I cannot remember much more till we went to live in Sloane
Street : there he used to dine every evening at home at five
o'clock, and then to rest on the sofa in the back dining-room.
My task was to put him to sleep by stroking his hair, and when
I thought him " fast," to tiptoe out of the room, which I did
with terrible contortions, for fear of waking him, taking twenty
minutes to get to .the .door, often to be frustrated in the end by

174 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

falling headlong over a rug or a cat — a great tragedy, as it would
wake him, and I had to go back and get him to sleep again.

Though he was so dominating, almost domineering, about
what he wanted us to do, and though we could not possibly
have found it in our hearts to say " No," he always thanked us,
even as children, for being with him : "So lovely, dear, your
being with me."

When his own theatre was built, we necessarily saw less of
him, and from the moment of laying the foundation-stone with
a gold trowel, he regarded it as his toy, and he could never
leave it. Like the engine-driver with his engine, who, I am told,
is always, for love of it, screwing quite unnecessary screws to the
sticking-point, he had to be at the theatre all day, merely to
watch the works.

He was justly proud of it, as it gradually dropped its scaf-
folding and emerged, a tall, cream-coloured building, with a
bronze dome, which we hoped would turn green with time.
He and I used to look up at it, and then walk to the top of the
Haymarket and look down at it, and one of us would say : ' I
think it's a little greener to-day, don't you ? "

The room he lived in — his " dome," as it was always called —
was really the space under the dome where rats and fire-escapes
would normally have been kept, but which he made into a won-
derful place in which to live and work. It consisted of a high
banqueting-hall, ending in rafters and what might have been a
belfry, and a small inner room, which he always said was very
characteristic of himself. This, however, was his own modest
estimate, for it really was nothing more than an ordinary com-
fortable room, distinguished only by a frieze running round it,
painted with scenes from Twelfth Night, The Tempest, and The
Taming of the Shrew. Underneath the frieze were bookshelves
containing great big useful illustrated books, with a mass of
hopeless presentation copies bearing such titles as " Shakespeare
through an Old Stager's Spectacles," " Sardanapalus : A Tragedy
in 8 Acts." The interesting books and papers were piled up
with his methodical untidiness on chairs, sofas and desks : the
room had a nice glow of hard work ; there was nothing stale or
burnt out about it. Many happy meals of Mother and the
children, between matinees and evening performances, were

MY FATHER 175

eaten here ; Mother used to call these meals " Sir Herbert Tree
at Dome." He had a nice childish feeling that he could shut
his two great doors, and feel he was out of the world. He used
to tell the story — one of his loved stories — of Sir Squire Bancroft,
who, when first shown the theatre, exclaimed with gloomy
wit, " All those windows will have to be cleaned," which, indeed,
they had, and sometimes the theatre, from being so immense,
did prove a slight burden to him after the compactness of the
Haymarket. Not only had he to keep an enormous staff at work
there, but he could not put on many plays which he would have
liked to produce, especially modern plays. Still, he loved the
place, and never could keep away from it long. Even on my
wedding-day, when we were driving to St. Martin's Church, I,
very typical and rather sedate (for me), with veil and train
poised ready for my spring on to the red carpet, he turned to
me suddenly in Regent Street and said, " Will you drive me
down to the theatre first, dear ? ' And so at the stage-door I,
the bride, sat watching his beloved figure — flamboyant coat-
tails, hat, stick and all — vanish through the swing-doors, only
to return a few minutes later having found out that all was well.
I was so glad afterwards, as it would not have seemed natural
for me to be driving with him and not to stop there. It was
not in the least want of consideration for me or disregard of the
deep happiness of the day ; indeed, he always said that it was
one of the proudest days of his life.

He had real sympathy both in joy and sorrow, and yet so
much of the child in him, that he loved all silly games and imita-
tions, making rhymes, drawing, counting wheels, and making
up stories about passers-by. All this made him the most wonder-
ful friend and companion, for he was not only entertaining, but
being entertained ; like Falstaff, he was not only witty himself,
but the cause of wit in others, and I think there is no higher
praise than this.

Not quite an outdoor man, no ; he boasted, on the contrary,
that he could do without exercise entirely, yet he loved riding and
swimming, if they happened to be within reach, and what he
called ' going through the air, dear," the actual pleasure of
movement, walking very quickly (as my legs got longer and
longer they never quite learnt to keep up with Mm without an

176 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

occasional run), or going in a motor with bare head, to feci the
wind in his face — not trains, which he couldn't bear because they
stopped at stations. Continually I have known him at some
quite ordinary place, like Crewe, lean out of his carriage and say
to some innocent passing official, " Can't we be getting along
now ? "

He was absolutely natural and unaffected, though people
who knew him only a little were inclined to think the opposite.
He would go past them wrapped in a cloud of ideas, his face
turned neither to the right nor to the left, but his light eyes
expressing what was going on in his brain. He therefore ap-
peared to look through people and things ; but this mannerism
was not, as some people say, a mask to hide his real feelings, but,
to use his own expression, in order to " switch himself off."
Sometimes at the beginning of one of his big enterprises, when
things threatened to go wrong, his staff, hoping against hope,
would whisper, " It's all right ; the chief won't notice." But
the chief always did notice ; he could " switch himself on " the
moment he liked, and very little escaped him.

He hated artificiality and make-believe, or anything trivial,
or what he called flippant, so much so that some of our modernest
effects in art seemed to him false and unintelligible. He would
open his eyes very wide, and wave his head from side to side,
as if to say, " Why ? Why ? " However, some of the really
great modern things, notably Gordon Craig's Hamlet, which he saw
in Moscow, he admired infinitely. He described this as a wonder
of gold kings and courtiers from which background the tiny
black figure of Hamlet detached itself — described it as he alone
could, very slowly, sometimes using gestures to fill the gap of
words, which made us hold our breath for fear of losing the
sense.

Two parallel lines, they say, never meet, and it seems cruel
that these two great figures, Craig and himself, born to work
together, should have been parted by a sea of misunderstand-
ings, though they occasionally tried to throw rocket signals to
each other across the void. Together they would have been
gigantic. . . .

Technical terms he never knew ; they always bothered him,
and sometimes he had a difficulty in making himself understood

MY FATHER 177

at rehearsal. He would point, for instance, at a refractory light
and say, " That one, that one there ; it gives no light ; ' instead
of " Don't check your battens," or whatever it might be; or,
again, " More mystery, more mystery," which the stage-manager,
in his capacity of interpreter, would translate in a raucous whisper
to the limelight-man above as " Biff your Number Threes."
But in his own way he did all and every kind of work himself,
never relying on mere " departmental work " so far as the stage
was concerned. Even with the music, of which he had no
technical knowledge, he had marvellous instinct, often to the
point of suggesting to the composer exactly what he wanted.
His colleagues were constantly amazed by the quickness and
inspiration of his suggestions. " It's so awful to be right every
time," he frequently said, after having won a tussle against
exceeding odds of experts.

Beauty — to realize beauty was his great object, but he could
not find beauty, as some of us can, in ugliness, crudity, or queer-
ness, and the subtleties of symbolism seemed to him mere
mediocrity and cheating the public. " These things will soon be
Bakst numbers, dear," was his comment to me on what was,
I must say, one of the least beautiful of the marvellous Bakst
ballets.

No one was less vain than he about his personal appearance,
or cared less what he wore. When his tie had lost its pristine
splendour, he used to take me with him to the little shop next
to his barber's, and say, " I want a tie ; " then he put on the
first one offered him, and left the old one on the counter. All
his shopping he did like this.

Of course we all loved his looks, and would not have changed
anything of them : when he was not tired, his eyes were very blue,
and he had perfect teeth, which showed very much when he
laughed, a real out-and-out laugh, to arouse which one went
through anything ; even to make him smile was worth a lot, and
his staff tried every conceivable trick to amuse him. For all
his carelessness he would from time to time feel dissatisfied with
his appearance, and I remember his once trying to describe to
me a young actor whom I had not yet seen : "He has the sort
of looks I ought to have had."

When he was going to be drawn by Mr. Sargent I went with

178 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

him to the studio ; knowing that he was very diffident about his
looks and that Mr. Sargent was terribly shy and modest about
his work, I was afraid that, left to themselves, they would never
set to and get to work.

The moment he had stepped on to the dais, I said to him :
' Look towards the window, Daddy." He did so. Mr. Sargent
became covered with confusion. " Don't strain, don't strain ;
you will never be able to keep that pose." My father seemed
surprised, and answered : " No, no, it's quite natural." This
defiant turn of head and illuminated look was normal to him,
before whose mind's-eye processions of popes, jugglers, and
sinister servants holding peacocks in the leash passed continuously
to the accompaniment of music, sad, strange, or grotesque. His
most beautiful production, Herod, was probably built up like
this, while he was driving through the streets, or carrying on a
polite conversation.

1 cannot help speaking of him as an actor, though others
will have better things to say. Still, I have had my part in that
side of his life, and I like to recall what so many of his comrades
felt — what a wonderful person he was " to meet " (to use thea-
trical parlance) on the stage. Once again, he was always an
adventure, an excitement, one never knew quite what he would
do ; but it was always the right thing to give inspiration to one's
next line. I believe it has been said that the greatest tech-
nicians of the stage don't become their parts, but mechanically
drill their faces and their emotions. This may be, but it was
not so with him : he actually became the part he was playing
— that is why he was never the same from night to night, and
why sometimes he appeared to be " walking through his part."
With him it was everything or nothing : he was either living the
part over again, or else completely out of it. His genius for
make-up was always remarkable, but it was always helped —
much more than people thought — by this quality of " getting
inside " the character he was playing. As Gringoire he actually
felt thin and hungry ; as Svengali he felt magnetic, dirty and
musical ; as Beethoven he felt small and square, with big, strong,
rather stumpy hands.

I think I shall always remember the last act of Richard II.
as my best time with him, because in it we did not seem to be

HERBERT TREE
From a charcoal drawing by J. S. Sargent.

MY FATHER 170

on the stage — we were showing what we really felt about things :
that there was an audience looking on didn't seem to matter. I
played the Queen — very badly, except for the one scene, in
which I became myself. I had to wait for his coming (Act V. ,
Scene I. A Street) with Aumerle :

Thb Quun : This way the King will come ; this it th« way
To Julius Caesar's ill-er«cted tower

After this I looked instinctively to see my father come out,
very simply and rather tired, dressed in black, and each time it
seemed as if he were surprised to see me standing there, and as
if we were really to say good-bye to each other for the first
and last time. Then I fell on his neck, and said my speech sob-
bing, because at that moment I was not Richard's Queen but
my father's daughter — all alone on the great isolation of the
stage, for Aumerle and the super halberdiers had vanished like
shadows to the dark corners. He never could begin his speech
at once — he was so worried by my tears, as I looked at him
through blinded eyes. By and by I put my head down on his
shoulder so that he might begin — then only his voice came loud
and ringing like a clarion :

" Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,
To make my end too sudden : learn, good soul,
To think our former state a happy dream. . . .
In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire
With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales
Of woeful ages long ago betid ;
And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their griefs.
Tell them the lamentable tale of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds. ..."

All it meant to me was, " Don't cry, Viola ; tell them I wanted
to do what was fine," and then and there I used to see myself
by some fireside in Norfolk or Kent, telling no lamentable tale,
indeed, but the proud story of his life's work and of his wonder-
ful vitality. . . .

12*

180 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

It can only do good to us to speak of him often, and perhaps
— who knows ? — it may do good to him and make his life
beyond more vivid and less misty. For myself, I think con-
tinually of the spirits of the grandparents in " The Blue Bird "
— insisting, " Come back, back to us every day ; don't forget
us ; come back, children." . . .

MEMORIES

By Iris Tree

Theatres have lost their meaning for me now — I have known
one theatre so well, and have loved it so long, it has run through
the chain of all my memories, but now the link is broken. When
I was a child the theatre was a refuge from lessons, mutton
and rain, a place whose mystery was never dimmed by familiarity,
a place of sliding curtains and endless doors, a corridor of echoing
adventures.

So many times I have run up the noisy stairs that resounded
with armoured footsteps, ladies humming tunes and rustling
dresses, despairing voice of the call-boy — " All down for the
first act, please " — I have chased down the passages, round the
empty dress circle, into my father's room, where people were
always waiting, and where there were so many pictures to
look at.

And then the dressing-room itself, where my father sat
before his mirrors, whitening an eyebrow, building a nose,
haggering his face with delicate lines and laughing with us the
while, dictating letters, calling for people.

It was the busiest, most whimsical, most fairylike room ;
into it entered the man of cares, ambitions, of worldly hopes,
and worldly weariness, emerging as some creation of a poet's
fancy, an incarnation of fables, jests and tragedies. No longer
man, but a spirit to move among men's hearts, to hush them to
tears and revive them to laughter.

In and out people darted, harassed, mechanical, having mo-
mentarily lost all personal identity to become the stops and
wires of my father's will.

181

182 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

He was a great despot in the theatre, no tyrant could have
been more exacting, though no ruler more beloved.

It was only when he had left the theatre that he seemed to
put on his more human mood.

Those long drives with him through the park, through
melancholy suburbs, through sunset-lighted roads, and back
again in the lamplight.

My father, though he professed to love the country, in reality
had no sympathy for rustic living, he would tell me as we drove
along how wicked country people were, pointing with a sinister
finger at some criminal or merely idiotic face, and assuring me
that Cockneys were the only good people.

When he stayed in country houses, after the first hours of
dozing upon lawns, and climbing stiles, he would go back to the
house humming a tune and furtively looking for the Bradshaw.

In America, when we saw the Grand Canon together, he stood
on the cliff with a smile of puzzled wonder at the barren beauty
of those abysmal twilights and torch-like peaks, for he could
only see them as the solemn background of human existence,
the vast theatre of man's emotions, labours and progress. But
there was no life in the scarred hollows beneath us, so he turned
away with relief to the little Indian camps huddled among the
snow.

It was to London that he belonged, or rather his brain and
body belonged to London, though in his spirit I think he be-
longed to no land ; he seemed like an exile from some country
whose name he had forgotten, but whose beauty came back to
him and left his eyes bewildered at gazing upon things to which
he had no kin. Most men bear traces of their environment,
are typical of some place or age or coterie, but he seemed always
the singular being, a wanderer from far roads whose dust had
not dimmed his face, a seeker for some star whose rays had
dazzled his eyes.

It was this aloofness that gave him a curious distinction
among all gatherings of people, in all streets of all cities, so that
strangers would turn to watch him questioningly, wondering
whence he came.

He had a great admiration for the gipsies and their music,
and told me that he had once resisted an impulse to viait

MEMORIES 183

them, lest he should become too fascinated by their life and
unable to return to his own.

He so seldom spoke of his inner life, of his personal sorrows
and joys, but on rare occasions, walking or driving, he would
tell me of the things he had done, of his love of the pine woods,
of Hungarian music, of his youth, of sad days and gay.

And he seemed in these shy reminiscences to be a different
person, someone I had never known.

It was the personal side that he showed least to people. I
think that he was too sensitive to speak of the things that
touched him most, and this made it difficult to probe deeply
into thoughts with him.

I remember him less as a father, though he was the most
wonderful father, less as a man, though he was the most lovable
of men, but more as a mood, a voice, a gesture toward fancy,
and light, and imaginative adventure.

His voice, which had that far, clear quality of voices on
summer waters, his laughing eyes under brows that frowned
from the habit of thought, and his hands that were more ex-
pressive than his words, and seemed as though they would
draw on the air the thoughts that flashed upon his mind — these
things I remember so vividly that I lose the detail of our days
together.

But I have many memories of him ; lighted moments of his
happiest moods, when all our smiles were kindled from his ;
quiet evening hours when he was very tired and would talk
wistfully of things and finally fall asleep ; triumphant nights
of success and pleasure, when he would charm the dullest com-
pany from their monosyllabic small-talk to glitter with the high-
lights reflected from him, when he seemed to be dancing to some
inward tune, and recalling old days whose ghosts had become
fairy in his memory.

When we were children he used to take us away from our
lessons to play with him, telling the governess that he had
hated lessons, that he never read books, and that most education
was useless. He told us fairy-tales, and never scolded us unless
we had been rude or unkind. He liked simplicity, and used
sometimes to cry at something that seemed very beautiful
to him.

184 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

He was a rebel at heart and hated all forms of oppression,
slavery and injustice, though another side of him revelled in
ceremonies, legends, and the magnificent pageantry of tyrants.

His ideals were Tolstoyan, his temperament despotic, so
that he was always spiritually opposed to things that his body
accepted. I used to tell him for fun that he was a tyrant, and
he would laugh guiltily and deny it.

We played all sorts of games together, talking in invented
languages, quarrelling in Cockney, and one day we pretended
to be ordinary people, but in the end he sighed and said : "It
is no use, dear, I cannot help behing exceptional."

He loved food — aesthetically— and while lunching at some
provincial hotel where, as he said, yesterday's cold chop is served
on the family Bible, he used to invent Caligulan dishes, and deck
the table so magnificently with his imagination that we would
completely forget the chop.

It was distasteful for him to eat alone, and he told me that
solitary eating was a grave symptom of the criminal mind.

He liked doing useful things like opening tins and bottles,
murmuring : "I always know about these things," adding,
when he had failed : " Ah, very good, patent non-openers."

He was so proud of our bungalow in California because he
had found it himself and engaged the servants. All day he
wandered through its rooms and generously gave the largest
to me for my bedroom, but I saw him admiring it wistfully,
and gradually it became his bedroom instead.

We used often to ride together on the rugged California hills.
He insisted upon using the wooden property saddle constructed
for Macbeth and would gallop all the way. He made great
friends with the cowboys to whom he repeated his most obscure
epigrams.

How hard and how long he worked at Los Angeles ! Some-
times for eighteen hours a day, in the heat of the sun, in
the glare of the studio lights, until I used to marvel at his
extraordinary vitality, his power to wade through fatigue,
and when he had reached a resting-place, to laugh, make merry,
write, create, discover new horizons.

In his own theatre it was the same, his energy seemed the
pillar upon which everything rested.

MEMORIES 185

Everyone loved him, or seemed so dependent on his per-
sonality that they lost theirs during his absence.

The grey stage at rehearsal with its dim figures moving
about in restless groups, seemed suddenly electrified by his
presence. Lights flashed from the roof, telephones rang, disasters
occurred, laughter, despair, sudden inspiration — everything —
began. I think that only those who saw him at work, building
his productions with such loving eagerness, raging, commanding,
almost mesmerizing people to perform his will, could realize
his genius in the theatre.

For I am sure that he had genius, although, perhaps, unaided
by great technique or intellectual knowledge, it was, if anything,
too instinctive and untempered by scholarly reserve.

There was something in his art akin to fascination, one could
criticize his acting, but no one could deny the power and wizardry
that he exercised over the imaginations of his audience.

I never liked him so much in the ordinary manly parts of
soldier, peasant and conventional lover. It seemed false when
he said : ' Lend me a fiver " or " Old chap," and became the
plain blunt man. It was in those parts of sinister fancy, of
whimsical humour, of nightmare and dream, that he let his
spirit loose, leaving the audience haunted and bewitched.

He had a strange faculty for stirring the imagination by
little touches, as in Fagin's asthmatic cough before the opened
window, which made one almost feel the fog rolling in from the
river, the taste of dust and the smell of mouldering walls. The
rlenched, awkward gestures of Beethoven, the thin, slightly
affected voice of Richard II., which gave a strange, pitiful
beauty to his weakness, the snarling woes of Shylock, whose
passions seemed tearing at themselves rather than at his enemies.

He could not be cynical or merely clever in his acting, and
when he was playing Macbeth for the cinema the directors were
amused and slightly irritated by his insisting upon knowing
his part perfectly, putting into his voice all the impassioned
quality it had on the stage. " I could not act unless I felt the
w rds," he said, and they knew it was true.

So deeply did he love his art, so entirely did he give himself
to the public, that I felt at times that he had no life outside the
theatre ; that dailv anxieties and pleasures were fictitious things

18<5 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

for him, and the only realities lay in his work, and in the hearts
of his audience. . . .

My father . . . More than anything I felt and feel about
him is a shining quality of light, the power of shedding and
receiving its rays.

And now that light so suddenly blown out has left its glow
upon our memories, kindling the darkness that his going left
within our hearts.

FROM A BROTHER'S STANDPOINT
By Max Beerbohm

On a wintry and damp afternoon, in the year 1908, I was stand-
ing on the doorstep of my mother's house in Upper Berkeley
Street, seeing off a man who had been lunching with us. A
taxi stopped at the curb, and my brother Herbert stepped out
of it in the dreamy yet ample and energetic way that he had of
stepping out of taxis. " Oh, how are you, Mr. Tree ? ' my
friend greeted him. " I ? " said Herbert, shaking the proffered
hand and gazing around him. " I ? Oh, I'm radiant ! '

My friend, when I went to see him a few days later, said to
me that this epithet, if any ordinary man applied it to himself,
would doubtless seem rather absurd, but that Herbert's use of
it was perfectly right and proper : he looked radiant, it was
obvious that he felt radiant, and he told the simple truth in
saying that he was radiant. My friend, having spoken thus,
looked in the glass and, I remember, sighed.

Herbert was for many reasons an enviable man, but I think
that what most of us most envied him was that incessant zest
of his. Nothing ever seemed to derange for one moment that
large, wholesome appetite for life and art. Difficulties that
would have crushed any man of no more than ordinary power
to cope with them were for Herbert a mere pleasant incentive —
or rather, as he was the last man to need any incentive, a mere
pleasant challenge to be lightly accepted and quickly dealt with
on the way to something else. The gigantic risks of His Majesty's
Theatre never, so far as I could see, caused him to turn a hair.
He was glad if things were going well ; if they weren't, he had
a plan for making them do so within a few weeks. He could
look Ruin in the face and say, " Oh, I'm radiant " ; whereat

18,

188 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

Ruin always slunk away, drawing her hood over her face — foiled
again.

First impressions are sharpest, and in describing anybody
it is always from them that one would wish to start. But when
first I saw Herbert I was too young to be impressed by him
in any way. I was but a few hours old ; and when those few
hours had become a few years, Herbert was already one of the
accepted figures on my horizon. He was nineteen years older
than I, and, as I have no memory of anything that was going
on before my fourth year, he must have been quite twenty-
two at the time of which I have faint glimpses. My parents,
and my sisters and I, lived in Clanricarde Gardens, a cul-de-sac
off the Bayswater Road — a double row of houses that seemed to
me far taller than the modern sky-scrapers seem. Herbert
seemed very tall, too, and his hair was of a very bright red, at
which T used to look up, up, with interest. It would seem that
his hair had touched the imagination of other children before me.
In the early 'seventies young laymen were apt to be less wholly
lay than they are now ; and Herbert, at the age of eighteen, had
felt it his duty to preach in the Sunday-school of a neighbouring
church, and had ceased to do so only when the children, pre-
suming on his lack of sternness, began to call him " Ha'porth
o' Carrots." It was not until many years later that the tuitional
instinct revived in him and led him to found the Academy of
Dramatic Art.

Besides teaching on Sundays, Herbert was also learning on
week-days. My father was in the City. He was for any years
a corn merchant, and subsequently started a journal, The
Evening Com Trade List (which was carried on after his death
in 1892 and only recently ceased to exist). His three eldest
sons, Ernest, Herbert and Julius, all graduated as clerks in his
office. I doubt whether any one of them learnt much there,
or was solemnly expected to learn much there. My father,
though devoted to his own work, had the most liberal of minds,
and was, I imagine, very well content that his sons should do
as they willed. It was not their will to stay for ever at their
desks. Ernest had a desire for sheep-farming in the wilds. He
went out to Cape Colony, married, and made his home there.
Julius went to explore Patagonia, explored it quite thoroughly,

FROM A BROTHER'S STANDPOINT 189

and wrote a delightful book about it. Herbert wanted to go
on the stage. That, in those days, was a wild, an awful inclina-
tion, and somewhat horrified even my father ; insomuch that
Herbert confined himself to a whirl of amateur theatricals. In
this whirl he had so much success that by the time he made his
first appearance in public all fatherly misgivings had vanished,
giving place to fatherly pride.

The Globe Theatre was, I believe, the scene of that first
appearance. And, as the year of it was certainly 1878, I can
claim to remember Herbert as he was before the seal of his pro-
fession was set on him. But, as what I remember is so scanty —
just that memory of a bright redness high up — my boast had
better be that I remember him in days long before he had set
his seal upon his profession. In 1879, or thereabouts, I had
acquired a habit of drawing pictures ; and what I liked about
Herbert, whenever he came to see us, was that he could draw
pictures, too. I think I liked him all the better for that our
styles did not clash. I drew and painted — especially painted.
Herbert used pencil only. The subjects I chose were soldiers,
policemen, cottages, and knights in armour. These subjects
he would sometimes assay, but only to please me : they did not
really interest him, and his handling of them was (I still think)
inferior to mine. What he excelled me in was Mr. Gladstone
and Lord Beaconsfield. He could draw either of them equally
well in profile or in full-face, and as the features of both of them
were very familiar to me in Punch, whose cartoons I was fond
of colouring week by week, I was in a position to appreciate his
skill. I was a Conservative, and Herbert (to my wonder and
grief) a Liberal. Yet his Lord Beaconsfield amused me not less
than his Mr. Gladstone. My mother, too, was very fond of watch-
ing him draw, and for her he used to draw all sorts of people —
people whom he had recently met. " This is Whistler, the
painter," he would say, or " This is E. W. Godwin," or " Here's
Oscar Wilde, the poet." Henry Irving, however, was his
favourite theme. And I remember him saying, one day, with
some importance : " The Routledges have asked me to dine on
Sunday night, and Irving is to be there." Whereat I communed
with myself : " Dinner ? On Sunday night ? ' Mr. Edmund
Routledge had the house opposite to my father's, and on the

190 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

following Sunday, at my bed-time, I looked out at those lit
windows, looked long at them. I was fascinated, in spite of
myself, and, much as I pitied Herbert for being so unlikely now
to go to Heaven, I was also envying him not a little, too.

I wanted to grow up quickly and belong (on week-days) to
the great world in which Herbert was moving. And of that
world I was soon to have a closer, more inspiring glimpse than
had been vouchsafed by the Routledges' lit windows. I think
the date of this glimpse was in March, 1882. I was now nine
years old, and went to a day-school that was graced with a
whole-holiday every Saturday. Herbert nobly invited me to
spend a Saturday morning with him. He had rooms in Maddox
Street, sharing them with his friend A. K. Moore. I remember
a room that seemed to me rather shabby (I had expected marble
columns), and I remember the smell of the smoke puffed continu-
ally from A. K. Moore's pipe. I did not like this smoke, and did not
form a high opinion of A. K. Moore. I did not know that he had
greatly distinguished himself at Oxford, and that he was destined
to write very brilliant leading articles for The Morning Post.
And even had I known these things I should still have regarded
him as the man who smoked that pipe and stared at me and
laughed again and again at the notion that Herbert had so
small a brother. Herbert himself went on writing at a table by
the window ; but this preoccupation I excused, for he told me
he was writing something for — Punch ! And he told me that
in a few minutes he was going to take his manuscript — and me ! —
round to Bouverie Street and show us both to Mr. Burnand.
At about this time Herbert wrote several skits for Punch. One
"1 them, I know, was on the " interviews " given to reporters by
Oscar Wilde during his American tour, and another was on the
press-notices of Mrs. Langtry's impersonation of Lady Macbeth.
Excellent fun they were — and are, in the bound volume. It may
have been one of these two skits that Herbert was writing on that
marvellous morning in my life. I remember A. K. Moore looking
through the manuscript and laughing, but doubting (which
seemed to me just like him) whether Mr. Burnand would put it in.

There were no marble columns even in the office of Punch
itself ; but there was, and I saw him with my own eyes, Mr.
Burnand ; and he seemed to me the more greatly a prince of

FROM A BROTHER'S STANDPOINT 1©1

men because he was not smoking, and because he sat in a chair
that swung round towards us in a most fascinating manner, and
because he did not laugh at me. I liked also Mrs. Bernard Beere,
the famous actress, to whom, after another drive in a hansom,
I was presented as she lay, in the middle of a large room some-
where, on a sofa of crimson velvet, with a great deal of lace
around her head, and an enormous bunch of hothouse grapes on
a small table beside her, and a company of important-looking
men standing and sitting around her. I liked her for giving me
so many of her grapes ; but my enjoyment of these was somewhat
marred by the more-than-A.-K. -Moorish mirth of one gentleman
at the smallness of " Beerbohm Tree's brother." This gentle-
man was of immense height and girth ; and I was just old
enough to think of saying, and just too well-brought-up to say,
that i" might as well laugh at the bigness of " Beerbohm Tree's
friend." I did but look fixedly at the striped shirt-collar that
he wore ; and later, when, in another hansom, Herbert told me
that the gentleman was Mr. Edmund Yates, I merely said that
I did not like his striped collar.

The greatest event of that great day was yet to come : we
were to lunch at Herbert's club. Was it the " Arundel," perhaps ?
The " Savage " ? I know not. I cared not. It was Herbert's
club, and I lunched in it, and was presented to the great Mr.
Godwin in it. At first I thought he must be " a conspirator,"
for he wore a large black cloak and a large soft black hat. But
he had the most charming manners, and treated me as an equal,
and I quite agreed with the opinion, so often expressed by Herbert
in those days, that Godwin was a Master. I left the club in
company with these two, and Herbert, after hailing a hansom
for me and paying the driver, gave me a ten-shilling piece. To
have gold seemed to me at that time hardly less wonderful than
it would seem in this age of paper. That gold piece soon became
some mere silver ; that silver, vanishing copper ; but the
memory of those hours with Herbert was a treasure to be
jealously hoarded.

Herbert was (then and always) a hero to me. But, let me
add, Julius was a god. And he was not so because he had
explored Patagonia (remote and savage things had no magic
for me), nor because he had written a much-praised book about

HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

Kitagonia (1 was not literary), but because he was so cool and
calm and elegant. Herbert seemed always to be in a hurry,
Julius never. Herbert would overpay and dismiss his hansom
whenever he came to see us, and at his departure would whistle
frantically and piercingly for another. Julius always kept his
hansom waiting, huur after hour. And his hansom was always
one of that new and lordly kind, padded throughout with black
leather, and fitted with two little looking-glasses, and drawn by
a spirited horse, and driven by a not tipsy driver. Herbert
talked excitedly, and used to pass his hands through his hair,
and leave it all standing up on end. Julius never raised his
deep voice, and never put any expression into it, and his straw-
coloured hair lay around his head as smoothly as satin. Her-
bert's necktie was often on one side, and his top-hat always
lustreless, and he never had a flower in his buttonhole. Julius
had always a gardenia or Parma violets, and his hat was dazzling,
and his linen was washed in Paris. Also, he had a moustache.
Not to have that when one was grown up seemed to me to argue
a deficiency in sense of fitness. I knew that Herbert, being an
actor, had to be clean-shaven. But I felt that I myself, if here-
after I had to choose between being an actor and having a
moustache, should not hesitate. Not in virtue of his acting, but
rather in virtue of himself, was Herbert a hero to me. More
than once, schoolfellows of mine had said to me : " Your
brother's an actor, isn't he ? ' They had not said this in a tone

implying actual condemnation. But

In some early month of '84 my classification of the two
brothers underwent a sudden change. Herbert became a god,
Julius sank to the level of a hero. For Herbert was engaged to
be married ; and being married had always seemed to me an
even finer thing, a thing even more essential to the full glory
of the adult state, than having a moustache. My father and
mother, my sisters and I, were all of us equally enthusiastic
about Miss Maud Holt. She and Herbert used to come and
lunch in Clanricarde Gardens every Sunday, and these Sundays
were great days. Miss Holt was so charming and amusing.
Also, she used to play and sing to us ; and I can see Herbert
now, hanging over the piano, rapt, in devotion. A goddess,
decidedly.

JUNIUS BKRRBOHM.
From a painting by Zorn.

FROM A BROTHER'S STANDPOINT 193

But the greatest Sunday of all was yet to come. In Sep-
tember Miss Holt came to stay with us in Kent, in the house
where we were spending the summer holidays. Herbert was
in London, acting. He was due to arrive only on the bridal
Sunday. Of the preparations for that day, I recall especially
the two triumphal arches of flowers and branches, one at the gate
of the garden, the other at the gate of the little church hard by.
These were conceived and erected by the gardener and his
brother ; and I remember the surprise I felt when the gardener's
brother said to me : " They're not what you might call awful
grand, but they're what you might call rustic." To me they
appeared awful grand. Under the garden-gate's arch, on the
Sunday morning, I posted myself a full hour before Herbert was
expected to arrive. I was to be his " best man," and so delicious
was the foretaste of that duty that it could not be too long for
me. When at last he appeared, I was glad to see that his hat
was of almost Julian splendour ; but he looked so pale and
excited that I gasped out instinctively : " Have you lost the
ring ? ' I felt, god though he was, that it would be rather like
him to have lost the ring. However, all was well. The wedding
was conducted as smoothly as the most exacting " best man "
could wish. And at the wedding-breakfast there were sillabubs,
my favourite dish. I remember Herbert saying that they sounded
Biblical — " And Sillabub, the son of Sillabub, reigned in his
stead," a remark which shocked but amused me.

The reason for my being best man was that Julius was away
in Spain. A few weeks later, we heard that Julius, too, had
married. It seemed to me, when presently I saw her, that his
bride was as delightful and wonderful as Herbert's. Julius rose
from his brief abeyance among heroes. Julius was once more
a god.

In the years that followed, as I grew in understanding, and
was somewhat able to understand what a play was about, I
acquired a greater respect than I had had for the art of acting.
And particularly did I admire and applaud Herbert's exploits
in that art. Such a preference was natural ? I think it was not
due wholly to my affection. I was just old enough to appreciate
something of that elastic subtlety, that unflagging imagination,
which Herbert brought to the task of his every embodiment.

194 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE .

I could see the enormous difference between him and the
ordinary " sound " actor, and why it was that his fame was
so great now, and always becoming greater. No boy now ever
asked me if I had a brother who was an actor. It was known
that I was a brother of Beerbohm Tree, and the knowledge was
fraught with awe — awe that perceptibly deepened when, in the
year of the first Jubilee, Herbert became a Manager.

Ripened judgment has not inclined me to think The Red
Lamp the greatest play ever written. But I thought it so on
its first night — the first night of Herbert's management. And
I saw it seventeen times, without changing my opinion. Her-
bert always let me sit in his dressing-room during the entr'actes,
and there I met many of the most interesting men of the period
— none of whom, however, interested me so much as Herbert.
Partners and The Pompadour pleased me almost as much as
The Red Lamp, and so did the plays that came after ; and it
seems to me, as I look back, that even during term-time, when
my body was at Charterhouse, my soul was in the Haymarket
Theatre.

I think the magic of the Haymarket lost something of its
power for me when I left school. Oxford was so wondrous in
itself. My soul was undoubtedly there during term-time. But
in the vacations I was constantly at the theatre, and I stayed
often, with an unfailing sense of romance, at the house that
Herbert now had in Hampstead. A very lovely old house it
was, with low-ceiled rooms and plenty of chintz ; and with
plenty of garden ; and with Bully Boy, the celebrated bulldog
of The Dancing Girl, ugliest and most beauteous of beasts ; and
with Viola, not the least charming of children. And supper was
so very late up there, after the theatre down yonder ; and break-
fast so very late, too, and dinner so very early. Early though
dinner was, there was never a day when I didn't feel sure that
Herbert would be late for the theatre. It had always been an
odd thing about him that his restless energy seemed to be
coupled with a perfect vagueness as to time and place and
distance. He did, it is true, carry a watch, and often looked at
it ; but one never could believe he had drawn any deduction
from it. And yet he was never late for anything that mattered.
His punctuality was a great mystery. It would seem that he

FROM A BROTHER'S STANDPOINT 195

had some kind of queer instinct that saved him the trouble of
taking thought.

And it would seem that he had this in regard to other things
than time. I never saw him read a newspaper ; yet he appeared
always to know just what was going on all the world round.
He had read fewer books than any man I have ever known ;
yet I have known few men of letters who had a keener discern-
ment of good writing, or a keener delight in it. He had no
standards of comparison to guide him. He had merely an
innate sense of literary form.

He was, also, an acute judge of human character. Almost
everybody prides himself on being that. Herbert had the
rather rare distinction of being it. I think that the correctness
of his judgment of the people he met may have been due partly
to the unperceiving manner he had — that " radiant ' but ab-
stracted and roving regard of his. It was apt to put people
off their guard. Nor was this the only way in which Herbert's
famous " vagueness " was useful to him. Especially after he
became a manager, and was accordingly beset by all manner
of people with axes to grind, it was immensely useful to him
in saving him from committing himself. It was an escape
from the necessity of using the dangerous word yes or the un-
pleasant word no. And when his vagueness became a by-word
and a legend, he humorously cultivated it for its own sake —
cultivated it partly, too, perhaps, because it seemed to fit in
so well with the unworldliness on which he prided himself.

Unworldly he was, in so far as he had, like all artists, an
imaginary world of his own. And he was unworldly also in the
sense that he cared little or not at all for money. He was,
however, amongst other things, a very capable man of the
world.

Of his shrewdness wrapped in vagueness I can give an example
that befell me one day while I was staying with him in Hamp-
stead. He asked meditatively what I intended to be. I re-
minded him that I was going to the Bar. "Ah . . . The Bar.
. . . You at the Bar. ... I should have thought you'd better
be a — a sort of writer, and then, perhaps," he added, " drift
into Diplomacy." This was merely his way of saying what
the average man would have said thus : " You haven't a single

13*

196 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

one of the qualities that make for success at the Bar. But I
fancy you might do well in journalism." Or more likely the
average man would but have advised me to cultivate the ac-
quaintance of solicitors, and would not (as I hadn't ever attempted
to write anything) have guessed that I had a bent for writing.
The delightful touch about " drifting ' into the Diplomatic
Service was added merely to please himself and me.

He liked the company of very young men. For them his
manner was apt to shed much of its indirectness. With them,
being himself so young at heart, he was always, I think, more
at his ease than he was with men not very young. He liked
their ingenuousness and their pomposity. He revelled in drawing
them out. Whenever I took this or that fellow undergraduate
to a play at the Haymarket, Herbert always invited us both
to sup at the Garrick. We used to wonder at his power of
sitting up into the small hours, and the not so small, without
a trace of fatigue. We didn't know how much we amused him.

Until I was twenty-two I had never seen Herbert for more
than a few hours or days at a time. During the first three
months of 1895 I saw him continuously. For he took me with
him on his first tour to America. My sister-in-law has said, in
speaking of the voyage out, that Mr. Lionel Brough and I went
below after the first day and were not seen again. This is an
unintentional injustice to the memory of Lionel Brough. I
only wish he had not been so perfectly, so exuberantly good
a sailor as he was. He and I shared a cabin. The sea was very
stormy indeed. For three days and nights I remained in my
berth. I preferred the nights to the days, for then Brough was
sound asleep in the berth beneath me, and even the sight of
Brough's saucy little yachting-cap, swaying to and fro on its
peg whenever I opened my eyes to the dim lamp-light, was
preferable to the knowledge that Brough himself might at any
moment come breezily in at the door with that same cap sur-
mounting his fresh pink face and his crisp silver hair. He was
the kindest of men, and was always coming down from the
smoking-room, laden with the scent of that meeting-place, to
cheer me up for a few minutes. He was the bluffest of Yorkshire-
men, and the best of professional raconteurs, and he was always
asking me: " Have yer heard the one about the parson's bull-

FROM A BROTHER'S STANDPOINT 197

finch ? " or " Have yer heard the one about the coal-heaver's
ticket to Blackpool ? " or " Have yer heard the one about the
old lady who didn't like shrimps ? ' Also, he wore in his scarf
a large and unusual pin which I think he thought might act
as a talisman for me against sea-sickness. He had recently
appeared in some " command " performance at Windsor, and
" This," he would tell me, " is the pin Her Gracious Majesty
gave me ; " but somehow it always made me feel worse.

On the last three days I was well enough to be on deck,
nevertheless, and to share something of Herbert's delight in
the look of the Atlantic, and something of his immense excite-
ment as to what America would be like, and something of the
incidental pleasure he took in the intentness with which crew
and passengers gazed on the actor-pilgrim. I remember that
on the day before landing he went to have his hair cut by the
ship's barber, and how amused and pleased he was that the man
said : " This is a bit of a responsibility for me, sir ! " To the
last day of his life, he never was habituated to fame. The stares
of passers-by, eulogistic letters from strangers, invitations to
preside over meetings and things, snapshots in the illustrated
press — it was a sign of his abiding youngness that such things,
though they befell him so abundantly, never lost for him the
savour of freshness. They seemed always to take him by surprise
and make him the more " radiant." And it was characteristic
of his complexity that he was greatly amused at his own naivete.
He once handed me a letter from a stranger who had seen him
act on the previous night. " That's very nice," I said after read-
ing it. " Very," said he. " I can stand any amount of flattery,
so long as it's fulsome enough."

To the magic of New York, on our arrival, he was instantly
responsive. He was not the sort of tourist who takes a home-
made tuning-fork about with him and condemns the discords.
He regarded himself not as a responsible judge, but as a quite
irresponsible flitter-through. He liked the over-heated rooms
and the over-iced streets, liked not only the slow, low voices of
the New York men, but also the piercing voices of the New York
ladies, and also the fabulous expensiveness of cabs, and the
manners of street-car conductors, and being expected to make
a speech after the play's last act but one. Nor was Chicago

198 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

too grim for him, nor Boston too prim. Almost every member
of his company had brought over a tuning-fork. There was a
great deal of grumbling and growling, especially during railway
journeys. Herbert was a shining example of adaptability,
and I had never admired him more. What an appalling amount
of work and play he had to go through ! Yet from early morn-
ing to late night, or rather to early morning again, he was never
out of temper. In some of his work it was my mission to help
him. I had been given the post of private secretary (with salary).
But my mission was rather a failure. The letters that I wrote
in his stead were so carefully thought out and worded that many
of the letters sent to him could get no answers at all. After
two or three weeks (Herbert insisting, however, on my retention
of full salary) one of the regular managerial staff, a less scrupulous
writer, took over the main part of my duties.

People often said of Herbert that he lived nineteen to the
dozen. Twenty-nine is the number I would use in speaking of
his life in America. And that number was too high for even
him to touch with impunity. At the end of the three months,
after the series of farewell performances, farewell speeches, fare-
well banquets and what-not, Herbert did, soon after the boat
weighed anchor, say he thought he would go to bed rather early
to-night ; and for two or three days, as my sister-in-law has
related, he stayed in bed — he ! After which he arose, and was
the life and soul of the liner. The concert to be given on the
last evening of the voyage was organized by him as eagerly
as though his whole future career depended on its success. But
from this task, as from all his tasks, he derived plenty of light
amusement by the way. I shall never forget the conversation
between him and a very earnest, a very " ahr-nesst," actor who
had volunteered to recite Mark Antony's funeral speech. On
the afternoon of the day before the concert this actor invited
Herbert, and Herbert invited me, to a rehearsal of the speech,
down in the dining-saloon where the concert was to be held.
He posted himself at the end of the saloon, in front of the organ-
screen, folded his arms, and for a while regarded Herbert and
me, very sombre and beetle-browed. " Friends," he suddenly
began in a voice of thunder. It would have been fatal for me to
catch Herbert's eye. " Romans," he resumed. " Country-

FROM A BROTHER'S STANDPOINT 199

men " — " One instant, Mr. * ! ' cried Herbert's voice. —
" Well, Mr. Tree ? " — " An idea has just struck me. Didn't
Antony address the crowd from above ? " — " From the rostrum,
Mr. Tree." — " Rostrum, yes — rostrum. My idea is this : How
would it be if " — Herbert pointed to the organist's gallery — " you
spoke your speech from that little place up there ? ' Mr. *
looked up, considered, nodded his head gravely, and was about
to disappear up the winding staircase. " One instant, Mr. * !
Another idea ! What did Antony wear ? " — " A toga, Mr. Tree."
— " Toga, yes — toga." Herbert had already snatched a table-
cloth off one of the tables ; and I know not which face was the
more solemn — the face of that actor while Herbert draped him,
or Herbert's face. For some reason or another, Mr. * decided
that on " the night," as he called it, he would not wear costume.
But he did actually, when the time came, deliver his speech
from the organ-loft, with terrific effect. There was, however,
a rather awkward moment when he reappeared at the foot of
the winding staircase. Major-General Sir Somebody Some-
thing, who was acting as chairman and sitting in the middle of
the front row, sprang up and went to shake him warmly by the
hand. The Major-General was warded off with a fierce gesture.
The end was not yet. Antony had but, as in the play, come
down among us to read Caesar's will. " If you have tee-arrs,
prepare to shed them now," and so forth.

Such expressions as " the night," just quoted by me, never
were used by Herbert. He disliked slang. And especially did
he dislike theatrical slang. To him the theatre was always
a thing romantic and marvellous. " Knowingness ' about it
jarred his sensibility. But he did, as it were, study theatrical
slang, feeling a horrid fascination in the subject. " Do you
know," he once asked me, " what they call the curtain ? They
call it ' the rag.' " And he began to improvise various phrases
around this expression ; one of which was : " My boy, the rag
came down on mud," meaning " The play failed on the first
night."

Herbert, when he was in the vein, was a fine improviser.
His wit was a thing carefully thought out, and if he were going
to say something witty he would keep you waiting a moment
or so. But his humour was all spontaneous, and came, unlike

200 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

that of many humorists, not in spurts, but in a stream. I have
said that he was self-conscious, though " radiant," in general
company ; and so he was. But his self-consciousness quickly
melted away when he was alone with friends at a dinner-table
or supper-table. He was, for all his shyness, an essentially
sociable man, not merely in the sense that he liked to be often
with many people, but in the further and rarer sense that he liked
to be with anybody rather than be alone. If he were alone
in a hansom or a taxi, and saw on the pavement any man he
knew, he would stop the vehicle and offer that man a lift. When-
ever he came to our house, he would always, as I saw him off,
say that he was going to such-and-such a place and ask me to
go there with him. I do not, in telling this, mean that I was
no fitter company than any man. But I am afraid that as the
years went by, and the gap between our ages was accordingly
contracted, each of us found himself even more shy in presence
of the other than he was wont to be with people at large. An
old friend of Herbert's once said to him and me, in the course of
a dinner in the " Dome " of His Majesty's : " You two, when
you're together, always seem to be in an attitude of armed neu-
trality." I suggested to Herbert that " terrified love " would
be a truer description.

It was a great thing to me, the love that I knew in my heart
he had for me in his. I do believe he took as much pride in
my little career as I took in his big one. " Big " is a word that
attaches itself in my mind to so much concerning Herbert.
His body was big, and his nature big, and he did so love big
things ! Mountains, cathedrals, frescoes, Shakespeare, summer
skies, Wagnerian opera — his spacious temperament welcomed
everything of that sort. Things on a small scale, however ex-
quisite, did not satisfy him. I doubt whether even His Majesty's
Theatre was quite big enough according to his standard.

A curious and little-known fact about that theatre is that
by reason of me it had a narrow escape from never existing
at all. When Herbert was in Philadelphia, Paul Potter's dramatic
version of Du Maurier's Trilby was being acted at one of the
theatres there. The book had had a tremendous " boom " in
America. The play was a great success. I went one evening,
as emissary of Herbert, to see it and report on it. My report

Photo by]

SYKNO.U.I."

[T. C. Turner.

FROM A BROTHER'S STANDPOINT 201

across the supper-table was a very brief one, to the effect, that
the play in itself was utter nonsense and could only be a dismal
failure in London. Thus I, in my wisdom ; whereby impressed,
Herbert put Trilby from his mind. Six weeks later, in New
York, two nights before we embarked for England, he gave his
final performance at Abbey's Theatre, and on the next night
accordingly was free to visit one of the other theatres. He
thought he might as well go and see Trilby . . . and it was on
the proceeds of his production of Trilby in England that His
Majesty's presently began to rise.

For twenty years after its completion it was a source of
immense happiness to him ; it enabled him to realize his dreams ;
it fulfilled him. He achieved there things that he could not
have attempted elsewhere ; and these were the things nearest
his heart and most agreeable to his ambition. I shall always
be thankful for His Majesty's. For my own pleasure in play-
going, let me admit, I prefer small theatres. And for my own
delight in the genius of Herbert as actor I liked His Majesty's
less than the Haymarket. Robust though he was in mind and
in body, it was not in sweeping effects that his acting was pre-
eminent. The full strength of his art was in its amazing delicacy.
His humour and imagination, and his beautiful power for pathos,
found their best expression in ways that were subtlest. Subtleties
have a hard time on a large stage, in front of a large auditorium.
Herbert had to adapt his method to his surroundings. He did
this with great skill and success ; but I often wished he had not
to do it at all. Apart from his acting — and his acting was but
one of the many parts of him — I am entirely glad for him that
he had His Majesty's.

I think that in the last years of his life he grew to care less
for acting. His versatility had ranged over so vast a number
of diverse interpretations. What new thing was there for him
to do ? — for him, to whom the notion of marking time was so
utterly repugnant ? Especially after the outbreak of the War
did I notice in him an impatience of his work. The last time
we met was at my mother's house, just after his return from
America. He was looking, as usual, splendidly well, and was
full of animation. But in all his talk there was not a word
about acting.

202 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

I shall always miss him. He was a great feature in my life,
and I am always wishing him back again. But I am grateful,
for his sake, that he died in the fullness of health and vigour.
I am glad that but two moments before his death he was talking
and laughing, paring a peach for his dessert. When I saw him,
early next morning, he lay surrounded already with the flowers
he had been fondest of. His face was both familiar and strange.
Death, that preserves only what is essential, had taken away
whatever it is that is peculiar to the face of an actor. Extreme
strength of character and purpose was all that remained and
outstood now. But at the corners of the lips there was the
hint of an almost whimsical, an entirely happy smile. And I
felt that Herbert, though he was no longer breathing, was some-
how still " radiant."

A SKETCH
By Edmund Gosse, C.B.

In attempting to obey my friend Max's command that I should
send him a sketch from memory of his brother Herbert as I re-
member him, I am struck in the first place by a difficulty which
I never met with before, namely the insecurity of such impres-
sions in the case of an actor. That is to say, while the recollec-
tion of what a man of some other class looked like may be simple
and direct, that of what an actor was is bound to be complex,
and confused with his manifold impersonations on the stage.
Of most actors whom I have slightly known I should instantly
refuse to make any portrait whatever, because I lose their reality
in their assumed parts. Is there any real person at all, any
bundle of genuine characteristics left, one asks one's self, under
the Protean disguises ? If I try to give some faint portrait
of Herbert Tree, it is because I think that, in spite of all the
costumes and all the attitudes, an unusually hard core of per-
sonality did survive, and even actively protrude, in him.

I never had the privilege of knowing him intimately, but we
were acquaintances for more than thirty-five years. I recall
no occasion on which he was not courteous, considerate and
friendly, but our relations were never intimate, and long periods
divided our successive meetings. I never had an opportunity
of coming to close quarters with his character, and my little
sketch must be purely superficial. It seems to me that the com-
plicated aspect of the actor, of which I have spoken, affected
him externally, for I find it hard to bring into accord two visions
of him, the one of a certain dandified elegance, the other sturdy,
four-square and a little Batavian. In youth, — for he was still

203

204 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

young when I met him first, — he had not arrived at that im-
pressiveness which he achieved at last. He was then, in fact,
— with his red hair, his pale complexion and faint eyes, — the
reverse of impressive off the stage, and I think he may have
adopted what I call his " elegance " of manner in order to remove
this deficiency. At all events, as years went by, his increased
solidity of form and authoritative ease of address made him more
and more a " figure " in social intercourse ; and he developed
a style in conversation which was quite his own, and of which
he was not in possession when I knew him first.

Unless my memory is all at fault, it was the mother of
Sisera who invented the artifice of asking a question that she
might answer it herself. Herbert Tree was a master of this
trick. He was the Rosa Dartle of conversation. Vaguely,
dreamily, in that odd sonorous whisper that seemed to come
from the hollows of his skull, his face turned upwards and his
lips bent down, he would propound a question, sometimes pre-
posterous, sometimes naively puerile, and would employ the
silence of surprise which followed it by answering it himself with
great solemnity and yet with a twist upwards at the end which
provoked a continuation of the argument. He liked to air a
shadowy sort of paradox, and watch the result. If the quip
was respectfully accepted, he was pleased ; if it was scornfully
rejected he was not less pleased. His object never was to
instruct, but to stimulate interest. (I speak, of course, of his
private conversation, for I am told that, professionally, he was
an excellent instructor.)

His sense of humour, and his expression of it, were remark-
able, but he gave one the impression of not being very sure of
the effect of what he might be led to say. He was witty, partly
I think by studious cultivation, but he was whimsical by nature,
and his wit was an offshoot of his whim. He tossed his arrows
up into the air, and sometimes they hit the bull's-eye miracu-
lously ; sometimes they did not. I have heard him say things
that w< re deliciously apropos, and with a rapidity of mind that
was exhilarating ; but I have also heard him murmur things
that were almost fatuous ; and he seemed to lack personal
criticism in this respect. This was doubtless the reason why
there was always debate behind his back whether Herbert Tree

A SKETCH 205

was " clever " or merely silly, the truth being that he could be
both, or at least that he could divagate into a sort of dreamy,
aimless irony which gave the impression of silliness. I am not
sure that there was not often a method in those quaint sallies,
for he was a past master in the practice which is called " pulling
the leg " of a victim.

Herbert Tree possessed in high cultivation the art of narrative.
He recounted ludicrous incidents with a gravity, and with a
picturesqueness, which were diverting to an extreme degree.
The very last time I had the pleasure of meeting him in private,
he had lately returned from an excursion to California, where he
sought out a hermit-colony of film-performers, who conducted
their mysteries in some forest, far from the eye of man. Herbert
Tree, who was of course expected, reached a clearing of this
woodland, when he perceived at a distance, drawn up in a half-
moon against a background of trees, a large company of actors
and actresses. He walked towards them, like Agag, delicately,
and feeling very shy, for they made no movement, but, as
he came nearer, a little boy of some eight years of age, bearing
the word WELCOME embroidered in large letters across his
abdomen, advanced out of the crowd, and broke the death-like
silence by ejaculating in a loud shrill voice, " Glad to make your
acquaintance, Sir Tree ! " This episode was narrated by the
great actor, with imperturbable gravity, while we rocked in
helpless laughter.

A TRIBUTE
By Louis N. Parker

This is a modest nosegay laid on the grave of the great
manager, great actor, and, above all, great friend. If my own
affairs seem to crop up unduly, that is because they have been
linked closely with him during many years, and because I can
only speak of him according to my own individual knowledge
and experience.

My first acquaintance with Sir Herbert dates back to the
evening of the 17th April, 1876; when, with other "earnest
students of the drama " — let me rather say, with other enthu-
siastic young pittites — I waited at the pit-door of the old
Prince of Wales's Theatre in Tottenham Street, to see the first
performance of The Merchant oj Venice under the Bancroft
management. Edward Rose, who had already written and
published a blank-verse play on Columbus, and was later to
dramatize " Under the Red Robe" and to write many other suc-
cessful plays, was of our party, and had brought with him a tall,
thin, fair-haired youth, whom he introduced as " young Beer-
bohm," and who claimed our respectful admiration as an amateur
actor who was shortly to appear in a real London Theatre (the
Duke of York's in Holborn) as Achille Talma Dufard in The
First Night {" Le Mari de la Debutante ").

That passing acquaintance went no further at the time.
Our little group was dispersed. I retired to my musical life in
the provinces ; Tree went through the usual mill of the young
actor. But although I did not hear of him again for many
years, his striking personality, casual though our meeting had
been, had impressed itself upon me very vividly. The circum-

206

A TRIBUTE J07

stances under which we had spent the evening together contri-
buted to keep memory clear. It had been the occasion of Ellen
Terry's return to the stage after a long absence, and I think
none of us had ever seen her before. To see Ellen Terry for the
first time, in the full glory of her youth and beauty, was an
experience never to be forgotten, and the companions who
shared in that delight became for ever a part of the experience.
Thus Tree and the others lived on in my memory as if I
had met them for the first time in the radiance of a spring
morning.

In 1881 to my astonishment I recognized Tree in the shape
of Lambert Streyke in The Colonel. Now he was a well-known
actor, while I was still a humble pittite, and I did not venture
to recall myself to his recollection. Nevertheless, the fact
that I had sat next to him five years before gave me a personal
interest in him, and from that time forward, as he clomb from
rung to rung up the slippery ladder of popularity and fame, I
watched him from my obscure corner with that curious enthu-
siasm which many laymen who have never crossed, and have
no hope of crossing, the threshold of a stage-door, feel for some
actor or actress of their choice. In my case it was silent hero-
worship carried to the extreme limit of self-denial ; for I never
even wrote to ask for his photograph.

I did not see him again till 1884, when he was playing Paolo
Macari in Called Back. One is forced to cultivate the Muses
on a very little oatmeal in the pastoral provinces, and one's
ideas of what is going on in the theatre can only be gathered
from the accounts of the critics. I think the critics of those
days went into more detail, took more trouble, and had,
perhaps, a broader outlook than the critics of to-day. Perhaps
also they had more sympathy with the drama, and, more
particularly, with the art of the actor. Mr. William Archer
was writing profound and interesting studies which it is an
illuminating pleasure to read even now ; Mr. Clement Scott was
making and unmaking reputations ; Mr. Joseph Knight was
pouring his scholarship and his vast experience into his notices ;
and Mr. Moy Thomas and Mr. Addison Bright were keenly on
the look-out for new talent, and did not hesitate to say when
they had found it. None of these writers wrote to display his

208 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

own wit at the expense of the subject of his criticisms, and
there seemed to be nothing of the malice, finding expression in
cheap epigram, which, I fear, can be traced in some of the
dramatic journalism of to-day. At any rate, in spite of my
remoteness from the theatrical hub, I knew that Tree had
arrived ; that he had become one of the hopes of the theatie,
especially in parts of a weirdly romantic sort.

In 1887 Tree went into management at the Comedy Theatre.
This fact speaks volumes for the strides he had made, for his
courage, and for his faith in his own star. Only eleven years
had passed since he stood outside the pit-door of the Prince
of Wales's, and here he was, one of London's leading actors,
the manager of a West-End theatre, and a personality in the
artistic world.

I had lately begun — led thereto by accident — to try to write
alleged plays ; so I took my courage in both hands and sent
him the first play I ever wrote. The amazing thing happened.
Instead of a more or less polite rejection, Tree sent me seats to
witness The Red Lamp, and asked me to come and see him in an
interval between the acts. I am not dwelling on that evening
as an episode in my autobiography, but I think it of interest as
illustrating a less well-known phase of his character. Already
at that comparatively early date he had an established reputation
as a wit, and he was the companion of wits ; he had the " grand
manner " (bestowed upon him, I do believe, in his cradle), which
never left him ; his performance, his surroundings, entirely
novel to my unsophisticated eyes ; the fact that he was a
manager ; then, my unconquerable shyness, the knowledge
that I was a yokel from unknown wilds — my self-consciousness,
in short — added to my infirmity, which was already pronounced
— all these things struck me dumb, paralysed me, and made me,
I must imagine, the most ungainly and unpromising candidate
for dramatic honours who ever stepped across a manager's
threshold. Nothing, I suppose, can be more discouraging than
to have an epigram received with an uncomprehending
" What ? " Yet, instead of dismissing me with courteous in-
difference, and consigning me to prompt and permanent oblivion,
Tree encouraged me with undeserved praise and held out hopes
for the future which sent me home glowing with happiness and

HERBERT TREE

ABOUT. 1887.

A TRIBUTE 209

determined to do or die. Thus, at our first interview, I uncon-
sciously struck the vein of simple humanity in him, and of
spontaneous good nature, which I was later to learn was
the bed-rock foundation of his character, but which he fre-
quently disguised under a humorous mask of artificiality
and prcciosite. Moreover, from that evening onwards, un dis-
couraged by my unprepossessing debut, by my half -successes
or complete failures, he never let me slip out of his ken or with-
drew his friendship or his support, or ceased to egg me on to
renewed effort. My dramatic beginnings were not such as to
hold out any hope that I should ever be of the slightest use to
him ; yet in 1894 he engaged me to adapt Ludwig Fulda's
' Der Talisman ' (Once Upon a Time). That was a fiasco.
No matter. He had no sooner opened Her (now His) Majesty's
Theatre than he commissioned me to adapt Richepin's " Le
Chemineau ' (Ragged Robin), which turned out quite as
unsatisfactory7 as Once Upon a Time, in spite of a most engaging
performance on his part and a very remarkable one on the part
of Lady Tree.

Tree was not discouraged, but I was ; and for a long time I
left His Majesty's Theatre untroubled by my manuscripts. I
felt the canvas was too large for mv inexperienced brush. The
next experiment was an adaptation of Rene Fauchois' I
The subject appealed very strongly both to Tree and to myself,
but the adaptation of the French play was a very difficult
problem : it is a beautiful poem, in which Beethoven figures as
a rather verbose and verv declamatory old gentleman. While
retaining as much as possible of the beauty of the original. I
tried to get a little nearer the historical Beethoven. I have
seen the play instanced as a failure. That is very considerably
overstating the case. It was not even financially a failure ;
but at His Majesty's a play had to make a great deal of money
even to pay its way, and Beethoven did not attract the ordinary
theatre-going public sufficiently to fulfil that purpose. That
public did not know, and did not want to know, anything about
Beethoven. ' What's Beeth-uwen ? ' said the man in the
street, and did not pause for an answer. This was a pity, for
Tree never gave a finer, simpler, more carefully considered, or more
sincere performance, than in the title-part. In mere externals

210 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

he achieved a great tour-de-force. Many doubted his physical
fitness for the part ; for Beethoven was a short, stocky, square-
set little man, with dark eyes. I shall never forget our gasp of
surprise when Tree made his first entrance at the dress-rehearsal :
a short, stocky, square-set little man, with dark eyes. His head
was Beethoven's head. I have two portraits before me as I
write : one of Beethoven and one of Tree in the part, and it is
difficult to tell which is which. In many cases the effect of even
a wonderful make-up evaporates after the first three minutes,
and the actor's own individuality forces itself through the dis-
guise. In this instance it was not so. Tree had got into the
skin of the part ; he was in earnest ; and he maintained and
even increased the illusion to the very end of the play. He
seemed to have absorbed the mind of Beethoven. His per-
formance illustrated in a remarkable manner his facility for
assimilating arts with which he may be assumed to have had no
working familiarity. He was, for the time being, the master-
musician, the inspired composer, and the expert craftsman
could find no flaw in the technique of his performance. During
the course of the play Beethoven was shown in the act of com-
posing, of thinking out a composition ; he was shown in the very
afflatus of musical inspiration. The actor was required to
express this almost without the help of words, while the orchestra
interpreted the working of his mind. We went to Beethoven's
own sketch-books for our material : the sketch-books in which
he jotted down germs of musical thought during his solitary
walks ; erased them ; turned them this way and that ; until
he had found the one right way. Tree's facial expression, every
movement of his body and of his extraordinarily eloquent hands,
fell spontaneously into perfect agreement with the complicated
music. His audience was enabled to see into the composer's
mind, was initiated into the arcana of musical inspiration. We
felt we had surprised Beethoven himself in the act of composing.
Again, in the scene in which Beethoven ultimately realizes his
deafness, the actor was, as I can testify from experience, abso-
lutely, tragically, true to nature. Comparatively few people
witnessed this performance ; for the love and comprehension of
fine acting had given place to admiration for lingerie and the
worship of the clown who grins through a horse-collar ; but

A TRIBUTE 211

those who did, remember it as one of the greatest and most
perfect of Tree's achievements.

Tree was an indefatigable worker. If he only lived sixty-three
years according to the calendar, he lived one hundred and
twenty-six measured by the work of an average man. There
is an impression that a successful actor-manager's life is one of
elegant indolence, tempered by epigram ; and I think Tree loved
to encourage that impression. To a careless observer he never
seemed to be doing anything ; never seemed to want to do any-
thing ; seemed always more interested in something quite beside
the matter in hand — in anything, rather than that. I think he
liked to have it thought that his theatre ran itself ; that the
plays were rehearsed in odd moments ; that he learnt his own
parts while shaving ; that all his time was spent in lotus-eating.
He would wander away from a rehearsal to listen apparently
with the deepest possible interest to one intolerable bore after
another. When he had had as much of the bore as even he
could stand — and he suffered bores gladly — he would pin him to
the lapel of the busiest man he could find on the spot, and
meander away chuckling. When he was travelling, even with
the purpose of acquiring local colour, he never seemed to look
at anything. He said he never opened a book. He pretended
he had no sense of time. All this was merely an attitude it
gratified his sense of humour to assume pour epater le bourgeois.
He must at one time or another have devoured books ; for there
was no subject he was not familiar with. I never knew him miss
an appointment of any importance. He showed, when the
moment came, that he had absorbed the essentials of any place
or country he had visited. We went to Egypt together to get
hints for scenery, and he made me miserable because he seemed
to see nothing. I discovered later that he had seen everything,
and retained everything, much more clearly than I, who had
worn myself out in sight-seeing. One day, in 1910, he drifted
into my work-room in his usual accidental, nonchalant, unex-
pected way, and casually, as though it were nothing at all,
asked me to help him " produce " (that is a hateful word, but I
can think of no other) Henry VIII. People talk lightly about
working day and night. We did work day and night, and on the
day and night of the dress-rehearsal I was done for ; had to be

14*

212 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

carried out of the theatre ; went to bed and stayed there ; but
Tree played the endless part of Wolsey as if he had had nothing
else to do and nothing else to think of.

Long before this I had lost my stupid self-consciousness
where he was concerned and had grown to know him pretty
intimately. This intimacy was increased by my intercourse
with him in connection with Drake, Joseph, David Copper-
field and Mavoumeen. I saw him under all sorts of circum-
stances and among all sorts of people, and I had long ago
discovered that under the Tree of legend, the Tree who was
constantly letting off verbal fireworks, paradoxes and epigrams,
there was a kind, affectionate, simple, child-like man with a
heart of gold ; the most lovable man I have ever met ; the most
aggravating man, too. But though his " aggravatingness "
sometimes put one in a fury, the fury was instantly disarmed
by his perfectly sincere surprise that one could be angry. At
the climax of the most horrific quarrel, when we had littered the
stage with each other's fur, he would slip his arm through mine
and say, " Now, L-N, come and have supper," as if nothing
had happened. What could one do with a man like that, except
love him ? His affectionate nature compelled affection and would
take no denial. When once he had thought it worth while to
conquer your shyness or reserve, you were his friend and he was
yours, for all time. The whole staff of his theatre proved that.
There was not a man employed in it, whether before or behind
the curtain, who would not gladly have let himself be cut in
little pieces to serve " The Chief." A rehearsal might begin at
5 p.m. on one day and end in total exhaustion at 7.30 a.m.
the next morning. What of it ? Did anybody go on strike ?
Not a soul. They began again at 11 a.m. the same day. The
word fatigue did not exist in his vocabulary nor in anyone's
who was working with him. His enthusiasm for the play in
hand remained at fever-heat until the curtain had fallen on the
first performance. Then he wanted to get to work on the next.
I believe his ideal of theatrical life would have been six weeks
of strenuous rehearsal and ore performance. He was always,
without cessation or interruption, reaching out for the new
thing ; the thing that had not been done before ; the thing no
one else had ever thought of ; the thing that seemed impossible.

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A TRIBUTE 218

His theatre was his world, and to it he devoted his life. He
loved the building itself and he was proud of it, as well he might
be. To have kept such a house open and flourishing so many
years ; to have made it the leading playhouse of the English-
speaking world was, pace the faddists who consider no man
successful who is not bankrupt, a great achievement. His theatre
was his kingdom ; he treated it royally ; he treated his col-
leagues royally ; and he treated his public royally. With all the
business acumen he and his staff brought to bear on the conduct
of the great house, there was always an indefinable air of princely
hospitality about His Majesty's. The public felt that they
were getting something beyond their money's worth, in the way
of comfort, of consideration, of elegance.

He took a special pride in honouring his foreign colleagues.
The Theatre Francais can testify to that, and so can all foreign
authors and players who visited London during his manage-
ment, even if they were previously unknown to him. As his
pride in his profession was intense, so he loved to show his
foreign guests that they were properly appreciated and duly
honoured.

I am not here concerned with Tree's wit, with his felicity of
repartee, with his quips and quiddities. Those who only knew
him as a brilliant jester did not know him at all. It is but a
poor creature who survives in nothing but his bons-mots, and Tree
should not be classed with Theodore Hook. I have read with
amazement certain obituary notices by self-styled intimate
friends (many of whom, in the familiar intercourse of thirty
years, I never saw in his company) in which this facet of his
character was magnified to the distortion of the whole portrait,
while the serious work of his life was only passingly alluded
to, and then with invidious comparisons and insidious qualifi-
cations.

Tree was a happy man ; his nature was sunny ; his disposi-
tion was to look on the bright side of things, and, if the side
turned towards him happened to be gloomy, to set to work and
brighten it without loss of time. That characteristic helped him
to face occasional managerial failures with equanimity. If
anything bored him it was what he himself called " an obstinate
success," for the reason that it delayed some cherished scheme.

214 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

He shirked no duty however unpleasant, and evaded no re-
sponsibility however irksome ; on the contrary, he turned the
duty into a pleasure and the responsibility into a further occasion
of happiness for others and therefore for himself. He bore no
grudges and had not an iota of malice. Even the intentionally
offensive caricature of a buffoon could not provoke him ; if the
buffoon seemed essential to the cast of his next play he engaged
him. I think he enjoyed every moment of his life, and would
not have had one moment other than it was. He squeezed the last
ounce of work and enjojonent out of his day, and his day seldom
ended before its morrow was well on its way. While I am certain
he had no thought of dying, I am equally sure he died as he
would have wished : in harness, with his energies undiminished,
and in the act of planning the future. On the day of his death
he was busy engaging performers for the play he was soon to
produce, and he was looking forward to that with as much
interest as if he had been about to make his first appearance as
an actor. He had preserved the joyous spirits, the ambitions,
yes, and the illusions of youth. He believed in everybody until
they deceived him — and then he pensioned them. He was, in
short, a large-minded, tender-hearted, impulsive, generous gentle-
man, and as such he will ever be remembered by those who
knew him and loved him.

War has passed a reeking sponge over the drama, and for a
time the gap caused by Tree's death will not be appreciated.
But soon others besides his intimates will notice the hiatus.
The English Theatre has lost something more than a great actor
or a brilliant manager ; it has lost a leader ; it has lost its dis-
penser of open-handed hospitality ; it has lost, as you might say,
the head of its household, who splendidly did the honours on
great occasions ; who, on all occasions, was hot in defence of his
art and proud of his profession. His Majesty's Theatre was a
great institution with a great gentleman at the head of it. But
it is not only the theatre that is bereaved ; England has lost one
of her representative men : a man whose name was famous all
the world over, even where his personality was unknown.

All the foregoing I had set down a few days after his death.
Upon re-reading it nearly four years later, I see nothing I wish

A TRIBUTE 215

to omit : I only see that I have conveyed little of the sense of per-
sonal loss which I — and how many others ! — feel. That increases
daily. A joy has gone out of life. I constantly catch myself
saying, " I must tell Tree that," or " Tree would like that idea,"
and then I remember that the place he occupied in my world is
a great blank.

FROM THE STALLS

By Desmond MacCarthy

Sometimes between spectator and actor there grows up a kind
of one-sided personal relation. I call it a personal relation
because it is not merely on the part of the spectator an appre-
ciation of the actor's art ; it includes sympathy with the actor
himself, as he is conceived to be behind the parts he acts, and
it may carry with it almost a delusion of intimacy. Although I
never in my life spoke to Sir Herbert Tree, I felt as if I knew
him well. It made me sorry when he came to grief in a part ;
it added to my interest when he notably succeeded ; it even
made me sometimes follow him a little way along the street,
that I might enjoy the form and flourish he put into the
simple business of progression ; it made a casual face-to-face
encounter with him significant, so that I would afterwards
recall his restless, dream-glazed eyes which looked at objects
in a steady imperceptive way as though he was staring at his
own thoughts, and that bar above them, which, it is said, tends
to lift its possessor an inch or two above the solid ground. He
attracted me as a character at once flamboyant and extremely
sensitive ; I thought of him as a man immensely friendly, and
sympathetic, yet immensely self-absorbed. These conjectures,
whatever their value, at least attest that interest in me, and
interest, though it is no guarantee that a critic will reach right
conclusions, helps him at least to fix his attention on his subject.
Herbert Tree was an enthusiast ; the comments which follow
are by no means entirely composed of laurels, but on the grave
of an enthusiast we need lay no artificial wreaths.

For a long time before his death Herbert Tree, if his pro-
fession can be said to have a head, was the head of his profession ;

216

FROM THE STALLS 217

he had succeeded to the position once occupied by Irving. It
was not what it had been during the hey-day of Irving's career,
for His Majesty's was never a focus of all that was considered
choicest, most inspiring and most enterprising in dramatic
art, as the Lyceum had once been. It was never so important,
partly because it had no Ellen Terry, but chiefly because that
tradition had begun to lose prestige with the imaginative public.
His Majesty's, under Herbert Tree's management, frankly fore-
went the claim to be the last word in dramatic art. It stood
instead for the grandly, lavishly popular in that line. For years
it represented the central British conception of the drama when
it is taken seriously, just as the Savoy Hotel represents the
British conception of magnificence taken seriously ; that it
also reflected Herbert Tree's ideal is both true and untrue.

In judging his career, the first thing to remember is that he
was an imaginative, romantic man, and (though this found no
expression in his productions in their entirety) a subtle man.
His subtlety of feeling peeped out in the by-play of his own acting.
He might have been a greater actor, if he had had enough self-
confidence to believe that what he could do best was more worth
doing than bringing off effects which, in his youth, he had been
taught were the triumphs of an actor's art, or even perhaps
if his methods of production had not entailed such innumerable
preoccupations which had nothing to do with acting. But he
lived in an uncritical age, and he was ambitious. He set before
him, as an aim, that pre-eminence in the theatrical world he
did in fact attain, and in attaining it many aptitudes, all clamour-
ing for exercise, found satisfaction ; the artist in him acquiescing
— as far as we could see from stalls — without painful struggles.
It was easy for him to keep to the high road leading to a big
success, for two reasons.

In the first place he was pre-eminently a social man, not a
solitary one. He had that temperament which saves a man
from becoming a crank, but at the same time makes it hard for
him to trust those slight evanescent promptings which must be
listened for and obeyed, if he is to find himself completely as
an artist. Although he had obviously plenty of confidence
in his talents and courage in undertaking the most diverse parts,
I doubt if he had in him that hard kernel of arrogance which has

218 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

made it easier for less gifted, less original men to get the best,
and only the best, out of themselves. Emotionally, he was a
prime example of what is called the artistic temperament, but
intellectually I suspect him of having been sceptical, with more
than a touch of dilettantism, which, while it injured his art,
must have made him a most charming companion. In the
second place it was easy for him to follow the high road to popular
success, because the Lyceum tradition did give enormous scope
to his emotional, artistic temperament. The performances at
His Majesty's were not merely bids for full houses, they were the
gifts of an enthusiast. They were on a scale far too minutely
lavish to be commercial, and the effect was often magnificent
and impressive, giving pleasure and exhilaration to thousands.
It was the whole tradition that was wrong, not the way he carried
it out ; in that he displayed a wonderful amount of invention.
The editions of Shakespeare issued at His Majesty's were more
sumptuously bound and richly illustrated than any the Lyceum
had produced. The mistake was to suppose that, say, Antony
and Cleopatra could be improved by introducing a thrumming,
aromatic kind of music, or that the mystery and attraction of
Cleopatra herself could be reinforced by a symbolic transforma-
tion scene, in which a Sphinx loomed out of the blackness to die
into it again. Very fine that Sphinx was, I remember ; but
I also remember that it called down louder applause than any
other scene in the play, which proves there was something very
wrong.

The result of all this accumulation of commentary and illus-
tration, however ingenious or lavish, round a play was often to
slow down its action intolerably ; and while attempting to
interpret Shakespeare to the eye, the production too often
failed to interpret him to the mind. Thus it was that, in company
with several other critics, I found myself, when Shakespeare
was on at His Majesty's, shouting : " Sir Herbert Tree's carriage
stops the way ! ' Yet I was also aware that there was no better
test of the degree in which anyone possessed the finer fibres of
appreciation than his attitude towards Herbert Tree's own acting.
Indeed, I sometimes used the topic of his acting as a method of
discovering if anyone with whom I happened to converse about
acting had, or had not, genuine sensibility. In many of his

FROM THE STALLS 21S

interpretations there were features to which anyone, who was
master of the elements of criticism, could object — extrava-
gancies it required only rudimentary acuteness to ridicule ;
but did my interlocutor also respond to the light, quick indi-
cations of character, to the flashes of insight, illumining those
impersonations, to the generous impetus, the self-forgetful
audacity with which the actor had thrown himself into his part ?
Or did he merely direct a destructive sniff at the whole perform-
ance ? That was the test. Partly because the methods of pro-
duction at His Majesty's were rightly being questioned, partly
on account of the too obviously histrionic side of Herbert
Tree's technique, it became in some circles almost a mark
of discrimination to depreciate him indiscriminately; his
severest critics being, perhaps, those kind of people who, holding
some of the more common among sound opinions upon the art
of acting (either honestly acquired or picked up secondhand),
feel an instinctive need to protect the weakly growth of their own
sensibility by hedging it round with sweeping condemnations.
But cautious criticism without the faintest tincture of generosity
— who would care a fig for it ? Certainly not Herbert Tree.

He was essentially a romantic actor, perhaps the last
exuberant descendant of Romanticism flowering on the English
stage. Anyone looking at the pictures of bygone green-room
celebrities, of the Kembles, of the Keans, of Macready, will
perceive at once in their grandiose postures the naivety
of their appeal, the simplicity of their trust in an instant
response on the part of their audiences to whatever is histrioni-
cally noble, prodigious, extreme. Stop for a moment in front
of, say, the picture of Kemble as Hamlet, holding in his hands
the skull of Yorick, or read the description of Fechter in the part :
' Lymphatic, delicate, handsome and with his long flaxen curls,
quivering sensitive nostrils, fine eye, and sympathetic voice,
he perfectly represents the graceful prince." ..." It is," says
George Lewes, speaking of Fechter's performance, " the nearest
approach I have seen to the realization of Goethe's idea, expounded
in the celebrated critique in Wilhelm Meister, that there is a
burden laid on Hamlet too heavy for his soul to bear. The
refinement, the feminine delicacy, the vacillation of Hamlet are
admirably represented ; and it is only in the more tragic scenes

220 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

that we feel any short-coming." Here is the fore-runner of
Tree's Hamlet with the wandering, pathetic eye (the very
words might almost fit his Hamlet), just as that much criticized
incident in his performance, his kissing the hair of the uncon-
scious Ophelia, was the derivative of Kemble's farewell in the
" get thee to a nunnery " scene, when Kemble used to fling himself
at her feet and cover her hands with kisses before rushing from
the stage. The triumphs of dead actors live for us only in pic-
tures, in half-obliterated tradition, and in the pages of the few
dramatic critics who happen to be still readable on account of
their style. We believe in the dignity of Kemble's declamation,
in the power of Macready's pathos, in the thrilling fury of the
elder Kean and the marvel of his voice, because critics like
Hazlitt and Lewes have described them ; and no doubt we do
right to believe. But it does not follow that there was not also
much in their acting to which we would not have taken exception,
though it was pleasing and satisfactory to their contemporaries.
We know that these famous ones also clipped and altered the
text of Shakespeare ; we observe that they were praised for the
ingenuity of " their business " (precisely the kind Tree was
always inventing), and we suspect that their expression of
emotion was pitched in a very high key indeed. Garrick was
amazingly natural in comedy, but there are indications that
even Garrick's tragic acting was to our taste overcharged.
" Would you not, sir," asked Boswell, " start as Mr. Garrick
does, if you saw a ghost ? ' "I hope not," Dr. Johnson replied.
"If I did, I should frighten the ghost." What I wish to
suggest is that the astringent atmosphere of the 'nineties and
early twentieth century, which was not favourable to the
romantic, expansive side of Herbert Tree's art, would have
probably nibble-nipped also the reputations of some of his
famous predecessors. To Tree's Hamlet we much preferred
the fastidious, scholarly, airy-gallant Hamlet of Forbes-
Robertson, which lightened the heavy shadows of the play and
braced up the drooping figure of the traditional ' gloomy
Dane," whose utter abandonment to self-pity and display of
pride in feeling an exile in this world, were features more
immediately sympathetic to bygone audiences than to us. If
Lewes complained that there was too much of the cambric

I'luilo by]

" RICHARD II.

[Floyd, N.Y.C.

FROM THE STALLS 221

handkerchief in Macready's much-admired Hamlet, no doubt we
should have done so too.

I used to wish that someone would write a play for Tree
with Alfred de Musset as the hero. He would have been at home
in the part of a poet who is as proud of his sorrows as a soldier
of his scars ; and much at home in a world where genius
was marvelled at, not analysed, and men and women, the tight-
waisted beaux and wide-skirted ladies of old fashion plates, first
exchanged glances at such respectful distances, approached
each other with such elaborate delicacy and adored with such
despairing admiration. What an audience too those men and
women would have made for him ! Perhaps this wish was
suggested by his admirable rendering of intellectual feminine-
ness and exalted self-pity in Richard II. ; but my purpose in
mentioning it is to hint that in judging his talent and in
placing him among his predecessors and contemporaries, it is
important to think of him as an actor trailing with him into
the twentieth century clouds of romanticism, from which, for
our eyes, the glow and colour had in a measure departed.
But if he was pre-eminently a romantic, the next thing to
note about him is that he was a character actor ; and it was in
the exercise of this side of his talent that his subtlety showed
itself.

A character actor is one who does not excel chiefly in
playing certain recurring situations, but in building up before
our eyes a definite human being. Tree possessed the power of
conceiving character in a very high degree. Of all his contem-
poraries he had the largest share of this author's gift. But an
actor must, of course, also possess the faculty of representing
the characters he understands. His gift of conceiving character
may, as it does in dramatists and authors, outrun his power
of representing it to the eye and ear, which power is limited in the
case of every actor by his temperament and physique. In the
case of Herbert Tree his power of understanding character was
far wider than his power of representing it ; and his extraordinary
skill in making-up, in which he was unmatched, often tempted
him to play characters winch were outside his temperamental
and physical range. He had not the animal vigour which is
necessary to great excellence in violent tragedy or in robust

222 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

comedy. He could make himself look like Falstaff ; he under-
stood and revelled in the character of Falstaff, but his perform-
ance lacked fundamental force. Hence the contradiction in his
acting : his performance as a whole often fell short of high
excellence, yet these same impersonations were lit by insight
and masterly strokes of interpretation, which made the
spectator feel that he was watching the performance of the
most imaginative of living actors. He had understood the
character marvellously well. The same phenomenon would
occur in parts in which the author himself had put next to nothing.
It is well known that Tree practically created the part of The
Private Secretary, which amused many thousands of people for
several years, actually supplying many of the lines which
were quoted whenever the character was mentioned. Take,
again, a very bad play he produced at His Majesty's, Colonel
New co me. From the first act, when the old soldier quavers out
an old-fashioned song, while the young men are laughing at
him in their sleeves, to the last, when he dies in an almshouse
surrounded by a few loving friends, the play was one long attempt
to work in us the handle of the pump of tears. Sir Herbert
Tree himself worked at that handle hard. But a scene comes
back to me which illustrates how fine and subtle in the midst
of cheap sentiment his acting might suddenly become. This
scene was one in which the Colonel's old nurse, hearing he had
been ruined, came to return to him some little presents of value
which he had given her in his prosperity. The pathos of that
situation was obvious. What was remarkable in this scene
between the two old people was the way in which Sir Herbert
Tree's gestures somehow expressed the comfort it was to them
both just to be near each other ; the kind of unconsciousness
with which he caressed her, as though the vagueness of old age
had recreated in him the instinctiveness of childish affection.
Only an imaginative actor could have given the scene that
beauty. Sometimes when the sentiment of his parts was subtle
he succeeded with an ease and completeness which, owing to the
absence of emphasis, seemed often to escape the notice of critics ;
sometimes when it was crude he was apt to intensify its crude-
ness by abandoning himself to it utterly, and this did not
escape them.

FROM THE STALLS 228

His production of The Enemy of the People was an example
at once of his weakness as a producer and of his rare gift for
comprehending character. To liven Ibsen up he introduced some
foolery. He chose a very little man to play the part of " the
representative of the compact majority," so that there should
be a funny contrast between his own stature and this minute
actor's. (There was some foolery, too, over the burgomaster's
hat.) But his own acting in the part of that homely and
courageous prophet, Dr. Stockmann, was masterly and subtle.
He was perfect in the impassioned, indignant harangues, in
representing Stockmann's incredulous distress of mind, his readi-
ness to drop any number of points if only people will listen, a
readiness which looks so like want of dignity but springs from
sincerity. How admirably he acted the ruefulness with which
Stockmann surveys his torn clothes and gravely concludes that
" a man should never put on his best trousers when he goes
out to battle for freedom and truth ! " That Tree comprehended
his character completely was shown in the way he brought out
to perfection that rare and touching humour which expresses
itself in ways and words so like those of a person who has no
humour, that people without a sense of character do not see the
difference. When he was thundering from the platform about
stuffy, selfish, ignoble homes, he had a characteristically subtle
inspiration. Katerina, Stockmann's nervous, devoted wife, is
sitting beside him. She has tried all along to prevent her husband
embarking on his unpopular campaign, and her efforts have
always drawn the same remark from him : " Really, Katerina,
you are a most extraordinary woman." In the middle of this
harangue about stuffy homes he put his hand for a second on
her shoulder. It is hard to describe a gesture that is exactly
right, but this one at that moment said as plainly as words :
" Of course, my dear, that is not a hit at you." That momentary
gesture expressed perfectly the relation between husband and
wife. I recall it because it illustrates his gift of comprehending
character.

A character actor has, of course, like an author, a limited
repertory of characters whom he can make live for us. There
is always a central type which an author does better than
any other, and from which he cannot wander far without losing

224 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

his inspiration. This is still more obvious in the case of the
actor who must use his body and physical temperament in
creating character. Reviewing the many parts Tree played
and noticing those in which he excelled and the points at
which he excelled in others, it is not difficult to fix upon
that type : it was a character who had something of the
artist in him and in whom the artistic temperament readily
took a histrionic form. He loved to impersonate, and excelled
in impersonating, characters who, in varying degrees, were the
play-actors of their own emotions. Dandies, in the spiritual
or literal sense, he understood and sympathized with ; mannered
elegance, intellectual coquetry, humorous tenderness, self-
defensive irony, cunning grace, self-conscious pathos, delicate
familiarity, he could express perfectly. His Hamlet was satis-
factory in the passages which these phrases recall ; his Macbeth
impressive only where Macbeth resembles most a literary
man ; it was the " qualis artifex pereo " strain in the character
of Nero which attracted him to the part ; his Othello, Antony
(in Antony and Cleopatra), Shylock are forgotten, and best for-
gotten. But his genius for representing one who takes ad-
vantage of a gush of spontaneous emotion to heighten it for
his own ends, made his Antony in Julius Casar a perform-
ance of the highest excellence. For the same reason he tri-
umphed, though his elocution was seldom perfect, in the delivery
of the stage harangue ; that over-stippling of his effects which
sometimes spoilt them at other junctures, on these occasions
added the grace of spontaneity to what he uttered. He under-
stood the orator, the actor, the artist whose emotions are his own
material, and the half-sincere advocate. It was his sympathy
with the man who dramatizes his own woes, and his comprehen-
sion of the shifting connection between the heightened pose and
genuine feeling beneath, which made his Richard II. so admirable.
He understood well, too, the curious corruption of sincerity which
may result, and pitied the weakness of such men compared with
unimaginative men of action ; that pathos he conveyed to us
excellently well. The conscious courteousness of Richard II.,
his flashy imperiousness, the delicacy of his untrustworthy
nature, his exquisite gentleness, his spiteful arrogance so incon-
sistent with it, his theatrical humility and his rapid transitions

FROM THE STALLS 225

of mood, never found a better interpreter. Richard is essentially
the man who, when disaster comes, seeks refuge in being the
spectator of his own tragedy, whose heart is only gracious and
alive while he is looking on at his own destiny, but in action
becomes cowardly and mean. The reason why this piece of
acting has not been better remembered is that his audiences
were too busy gaping at the amazing pageantry of
the performance to remember or talk about anything
else.

He was always better in representing weakness than strength,
passivity than resolution, failure, whether of the faithful or
ignoble kind, than victory. He was admirable in the expres-
sion of that irony which is the revenge of the beaten or the
refuge of the helpless. He was not a good interpreter of
lovers' parts and he avoided them, but he could express an in-
timate tenderness extremely well. One characteristic of his
acting — and it distinguished him from most of his eminent
contemporaries — was that he always acted from his imagination.
He flung himself neck and crop into his parts. Sometimes the
results were disastrous, but even on these occasions there was
always discernible that effort to become entirely the part which
is the foundation of good acting. How strong the romantic
was in him was shown not only in his choice of parts, but in
his technique. He believed in inspiration. He was to the last
an impro visor, trusting to the emotion of the moment. Opinions
about him differed so widely, partly because different people had
seen him on different nights. He was sentimentally reluctant to
register and reproduce mechanically an effect he had once
achieved on the spur of the moment ; instead he waited for the
impulse to recur again. In this he differed from a great actor
like Coquelin, who, having once adjusted an intonation or a
gesture to a hair's-breadth, stereotyped it, so that if one saw
him in the same part years later, the impression was exactly
the same. The artistic impulse in him being far more
emotional than intellectual, he was attracted by exaggerated
situations, and this preference often prevented him from making
full use of his finer faculties. He was not his best when he
put on yellow tights and greaves and hung a skin about him
and pretended to be Ulysses ; and, astonishingly effective as

226 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

his Svengali and Fagin were, such parts did not show what
was most moving in his acting — his fantastic humour and the
extreme delicacy of his insight into the pathos of certain
characters and situations, which made him the most imaginative
of contemporary actors.

HERBERT TREE— MY FRIEND
By C. Haddon Chambers

It was in 1887 that I first met Herbert Tree. I was then writing
magazine stories for a livelihood, and had made only one or
two timid adventures into the dramatic field. I knew Tree but
very slightly, and when I met and was stopped by him one day
in Panton Street I was not unimpressed, for he was already in
management at the Comedy Theatre, and the world of London
was not unaware of his potentialities. After the conventional
greetings, he said : " Have you ever thought of writing a play
for me ? ' Frankly I hadn't, not even in my wildest day-dreams.
To this day I don't know if he was serious, but to doubt it at
the moment I felt would be poor policy. " No, but I will," I
said, and we parted. I went home to my rooms over a milk-
shop in Bayswater, aflame with ambition for the first time in
my life. In four months I had completed my task as represented
by " Captain Swift, a New and Original Play in Four Acts."

In the meanwhile Tree had left the Comedy Theatre, and
his long and brilliant management of the Haymarket had begun.
I duly carried my manuscript to him, and am unable to remember
if he expressed his surprise, or, as I had hoped, his overwhelming
joy. He promised a reading, however, and I discreetly retired
to my suburb from a sanctum which had, apparently, already
become the shelter of grave interests. Three months later I
was given my hearing to Tree alone at the Haymarket Theatre.
Probably my methods of reading have improved since those
days, for by the time I reached the end of Act II. our managerial
hero was aweary, and retired from the unequal contest in favour
of the Leicester Square Turkish baths. I had not ridden after
recalcitrant cattle in the Australian wilds fruitlessly, however,

227 15*

228 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

and presently 1 appeared loin-clothed and manuscript in hand
in the " hot room," where I gently but firmly imposed the
remaining two acts of my play upon the great manager's tired
hearing.

Naturally, Tree accepted the play, and the youthful author's

joy was unbounded ; but there were rocks ahead. They were

represented by Comyns Carr, the literary adviser, and Hastings,

the stage manager. One day, when I sat with Tree in his room

at the Hay market, there entered to us Hastings, manuscript in

hand. " Well, what do you think of it ? " asked Tree. " Damned

rot ! ' said Hastings, throwing the manuscript heavily upon

what he imagined was a table, but was really my heart. He

hadn't thought that the slender young fellow by the window

might be the author, and I never knew, when Tree introduced

us, whether he blushed behind his impenetrable beard. And

then there was Joe Carr, afterwards one of my dearest and most

sympathetic of friends. He was a hard nut to crack, for he had

no admiration of or belief in the play whatever. Not only so,

but he was able to advance his reasons with great eloquence,

weight and wit, and with copious quotations from the alleged

authorities ; and he permitted no misguided reticence to restrain

him from doing so in the presence of both manager and author.

I can see him now in that room overlooking Stafford Street,

walking up and down, arguing my play away with an unfailing

flow of words, and cutting my newly-opened career from under

my feet. Carr, with his lion head, his flowing beard, his fine

diction and choice of words, and his obvious sincerity, was

nothing less than formidable. " He's back at the Bar," I thought,

and I quaked for Tree. Suddenly I felt Tree's blue eyes on me.

They unmistakably expressed sympathy that I should be present

to hear all this bad news about my play. Carr's back was turned

at the moment. I deliberately winked at Tree. (I have always

thought since that that wink was the match that kindled our

long friendship.) He burst out laughing. " What are you

laughing at ? " asked Joe, turning quickly. " I am laughing,"

said Herbert adroitly, " because I have an idea. If Chambers

doesn't object, we'll give his play at a trial matinee." I didn't

object.

I needn't write of the matinee here, or of the subsequent career

Photo by]

HERBERT TREE

ABOUT 1889.

[Alfred Ellis.

HERBERT TREE— MY FRIEND 229

of Captain Swift. Everybody knows the story, and of how the
attractive and tragic ex-bushranger became one of Tree's great
modern creations. I wrote my second play, The Idler, for him
within the year, but, although he pondered it for some months,
Tree didn't see himself in the character provided, and I took
the play to George Alexander, who made it his first production
at the St. James's and gave a superb performance of the pro-
tagonist. But Tree's judgment was sound, all the same, for
' Mark Cross " was an unsuitable character for his own par-
ticular gifts.

Tree and I were again associated in a production a very few
years later. The play was ] ohn-o '-Dreams, and it was a great
success, the only drawback being that its run had to be inter-
rupted on account of agreements previously made for Tree's
first visit to America. The production gave rise to a cor-
respondence in The Times which created a considerable stir
at the time. An anonymous correspondent denounced the play
as having an immoral tendency. Tree was most indignant, and
on account of the style of the letter, and for other reasons, he
was convinced the writer was Clement Scott, with whom at the
time he was on indifferent terms. Well do I remember my dinner
with the Haymarket manager at Kettner's that evening
before the performance. Fortunately the restaurant was empty
at that hour, for Tree's fighting blood was up, and he was able
to walk about between courses and compose his answering letter
aloud. ' I shall say," he said, snatching a pencil from behind
the ear of the bewildered waiter, " I shall say, ' And here I seem
to detect the ink-stained forefinger of an old journalist hand '
(how he loved a phrase !), and down it went on the back of the
menu card. But Scott (if it was Scott) was also a fighter and
phrase-maker, and the day after Tree's letter appeared we had
a shrewd retort from the anonymous one which began something
like this : ' Spoon-fed with the theatrical pap of suburban
epigrammists, Mr. Tree " and so on.

' Who are the ' suburban epigrammists ' ? " asked Outram
Tristram, the author of The Red Lamp, and our familiar friend.

' Well," said Tree, " you and Haddon both live in Bays-
water."

I was not wholly unassociated with one other verbal melee

230 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

in which Tree and Scott were actors a little later on. One
evening Comyns Carr took me to sup with him at his club. It
chanced that during the day I had noticed an advertisement in
a daily paper extolling the attractions of Bexhill-on-Sea. The
advertisement concluded something like this : " And as the
celebrated dramatist and critic, Clement Scott, writes :

" ' Bexhill-on-Sea is a haven for me,
Whene'er my nerves are depressed ;
For there's a retreat where you golf and you eat,
And you sleep and you dream and you rest.' "

The thing had struck me as priceless, and as affording
delightful material for light entertainment, and when we sat
down to supper I handed the advertisement to Carr and drew
his attention to its glories. Joe, who had the mischievous heart
of a boy, fell upon it with glee, and was presently reading it
aloud to several men at the supper-table. These included
old Joe Knight, who was one of Scott's close friends. Carr's
humour, of course, took the form of considering the effusion as
a serious contribution to modern poetry ; but Knight, who
didn't see the joke, and who was also induced to read the verse
aloud, permitted himself to be drawn into an argument as to
whether the lines " scanned." Some of the members of the
company were frankly amused, while others were with Joe Knight
in failing to see any fun in the thing. Then Tree entered the
room, and quickly catching up the spirit of the joke, joyously
carried it shoulder-high for a couple of hours. About one o'clock
Scott himself appeared at the supper-table, and then there was
the devil to pay. Jokes, jibes, phrases, witticisms and retorts,
courteous and otherwise, whizzed over the supper-table. Scott,
also a fighter, hit back with characteristic energy, and his par-
tisans were not un vocal. And yet, although noisy, the affair
was seemly, with an absence of any real malice or rancour. As
for me, I continued to maintain an attitude of aloofness, for I
was not only the youngest member of the party, but a guest ;
but I hugged to myself the knowledge that I had been instru-
mental in starting the fray, which, had it occurred in the bush,
whence I had recently come, would have resulted in many a
bloody nose. As it was, the party broke up about four a.m.
in the highest spirits and the most orderly confusion, and Carr,

HERBERT TREE— MY FRIEND 231

Tree and I dropped each other at our respective homes from
a most reactionary four-wheeler. As our American friends would
say, " Some night ! "

J ohn-o' -Dreams was the last play I wrote for Tree, although
I sometimes threatened him, and he was genuinely anxious for
more work from my pen. He undoubtedly should have had it
had he remained at the Hay market. But he built himself the
magnificent theatre opposite, where " big " plays were needed,
and about that time I had drifted into writing comedies whose
production called for a small stage. I wrote The Tyranny of
Tears for Wyndham, but I don't think Tree ever had an oppor-
tunity of seeing it. He saw Sir Anthony, however, and was very
enthusiastic about Weedon Grossmith's and his own nephew,
Evelyn Beerbohm's performances. And he saw du Maurier's
production of Passers-by, and wrote a most generous appre-
ciation for it in the Press.

Meanwhile the silver cord of our friendship remained unloosed.
It found no active expression in the way of our seeking each
other's society, or in correspondence. In its thirty years of life
I don't believe we exchanged more than half a dozen letters.
But there was a subtle, tacit understanding between us which
enabled us to pick up the threads of interest at a moment's notice.
We rarely arranged to meet — we just met, and were glad.
Sometimes we were together when he was making holiday. That
I found excellent, for he was always alive and always joyous.
The fields, lanes and sands over which I am just now walking
daily, I have ridden over with Herbert many and many a time.
Although no player of games, he loved the open air, and loved
exercise, more particularly on horseback. He distrusted him-
self, and justly, as a sailor ; but in the old days, given amiable
weather, he would put to sea with me in my boat and remain
undismayed while I handled the sheets and tiller.

One morning, about seven years ago, Tree called me up on the
telephone. ' I hear you are going to New York again," he said.
I admitted it. ' Would you mind if I crossed on your ship ? '
he asked. Naturally I didn't. I was delighted. On the fol-
lowing Saturday we met at St. Pancras Station. Lady Tree
and Henry Dana were there to see him off, and " Please take
care of Herbert," whispered Lady Tree to me apart, and " Don't

232 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

let the dear old chief get into bad hands," similarly whispered
Dana. " Nobody ever wants anybody to take care of me ! '
I said to Tree when we had steamed out of the station. ' No
one would take on the job, you rascal ! " he replied.

During the first two days at sea the weather left everything
to be desired, and Tree kept his state-room — a large one on the
top deck — most of the time, reclining upon his sofa and expressing
weariness of life. He was not actually ill, but his distrust of
himself was of the gravest. After luncheon on the third day
out I chanced upon a very old and valued friend playing cards
in the smoking-room. I got an idea. I went to Tree's cabin
and sat by his " couch forlorn." " Herbert," I said, " you are
not actually ill."

" No," he said wearily, " but " and he made a face.

" You need rousing," I said.

" No doubt," he replied.

" And I have found the man to rouse you."

" Who's your friend ? " he drawled.

" One Blank," I announced.

" What does he do ? " asked Tree.

" Everything and everybody," I answered. ' Tom Blank
is one of the world's great men. You are a great man," I added
hastily, " great enough to permit me to say that Tom is an even
greater one. He's a citizen of the world, and has been every-
where and crossed every sea. He's travelled more boats than
you've even read the names of. His life has been an endless
romance. He's been a slaver, a buccaneer, a pirate. He's a
born and unbeaten fighter, and has a generous soul. He's been
the hero of vendettas in the South, and the ever-dangerous poet
of camp fires in the North. He has undoubtedly killed persons,
and persons have undoubtedly endeavoured, but vainly, to kill
him. For the rest, he is one of the most formidable of living
men, is a ripe Shakespearean scholar, and talks almost as well
as he plays cards. In a word," I concluded, " he is your
man."

Despite some feeble protestations from the invalid, I went
in search of Blank, and presently brought him to the cabin,
explaining en route that my friend was feeling seedy and needed
cheering up. The introduction was an event. Blank was

HERBERT TREE— MY FRIEND 233

six feet two and built to perfection — a terrific man, but withal
a genial. ' Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Blank," I said.
With splendid friendliness Blank offered a monstrous hand,
a portion of which Tree grasped. ' How do you do, Sir Tree ? "
said Blank. ' I'm sorry you're feeling a bit de trop." That
nearly finished Herbert. It's a terrible thing to want to laugh
when you mustn't. His eyes blazed with humour, and he was
fain to bite his writhing lips. To help him out, I quoted genially :
' Sooner or later mountains meet." Then we all laughed, and
the situation was saved.

Needless to say, Tree and Blank became tremendous pals
from that moment, and spent most of the rest of the voyage
in each other's society. There is no doubt that Blank's extra-
ordinary personality and amazingly adventurous career fas-
cinated the actor, who for long after begged me to write a play
with Blank as the central figure for Tree to impersonate.
And then, of course, a supper had to be given by Tree in his
state-room in honour of his new friend. (Was ever a more
hospitable fellow, or a better host !) There were present, in
addition to the twin stars, the purser, the ship's doctor, Walter
Jordan (the American manager) and myself, and a glorious time
we had. Songs were sung, Shakespeare was recited by the yard,
personal adventures were told and accepted without question,
feats of strength and agility were performed, bottles and glasses
were kept amove, and cigars and cigarettes aglow until you
could have carved your name in the atmosphere. It was, indeed,
a merry party, and no one was happier than our ex-invalid host.
The sitting was an abnormally late one, and the last item I am
able to remember was that of Tom Blank demonstrating to
Tree how a man may be tied into a knot and rendered helpless
before the administration of a coup de grace.

The mention a little earlier in these notes of Tree's fondness
for a phrase reminds me that during the voyage to New York
he quoted to me with some pride of authorship an aphorism he
had recently coined and made a careful note of. It was " A
sense of humour is the love-child of intelligence." I was duly
impressed, and I regarded the revelation to me as a literary
confidence ; but I was soon to remark that it was a confidence
which my most human old friend was willing and even anxious

234 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

to share with anyone who came along, and I heard him repeat
it at least a dozen times before we left the ship. Shortly after
our arrival, it chanced that we were both invited to a small lun-
cheon-party given at what is generally known as the " Mil-
lionaires' Club." I chanced to be a little late in arriving, and
found the company already at table. When I had made my
apologies the expansive millionaire on my right said : ' Pity you
were late, Mr. Chambers, for your friend Sir Herbert was very
amusing over the cocktails." I remarked that Sir Herbert was
always amusing and asked for details. " Well," said my neigh-
bour, " among other things he said that a sense of humour is the
love-child of intelligence."

' Splendid ! " I cried ; and, noting that Tree, who was sit-
ting opposite to us, and to whom I was indebted for several items
of raillery on board ship, was listening eagerly, I added : ' But
what does it mean ? " ' Well," drawled my millionaire, " you
may search me ; but it sounded good, all the same." No one
laughed more joyously than Tree himself.

Yes, Herbert Tree's sense of humour and of the fun of life
were certainly inexhaustible. So also were his courage and
endurance under difficulties. It was only a very few years after
the incidents I have mentioned that he and I were again in
New York and seeing each other constantly, and I shall never
forget the splendid courage and masterly skill with which he
met and overcame a grave reverse on his arrival. His arrange-
ments for and production of Henry VIII. at the New Amsterdam
Theatre a few weeks later represented a managerial accomplish-
ment of the highest order. The success of the revival was at
its height when I sailed for England. Tree gave me a farewell
supper — and a farewell supper it proved to be, for I never saw
him again. It was characteristic of him that the beginning and
end of our long friendship should have been expressed in terms
of hospitality — the hospitality of his theatre and the hospitality
of his heart.

Of Herbert Tree it may be truly said that he achieved his
ambition. He gained the topmost rung of the ladder of his
craft. He won his way by his own tireless efforts to the throne
of his own particular world. He lived where he wished
only to live, in the heart of life, giving all he had to give, and

HERBERT TREE— MY FRIEND 235

receiving with equal gratitude or hardihood the gifts or the knocks
that came his way. He was a success, and he mostly went as
one rejoicing ; and had his passing been less sudden, his last
supreme glance back upon the varied, difficult and brilliant way
might have constrained him to quote from one of his earliest
successes : " I've had a good time here. Good-bye ! "

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND
By Gilbert Parker

To write about Herbert Beerbohm Tree is hard and it is easy.
It is hard because he was a man of the most varied accomplish-
ments and unexpectedness, of the most fertile brain and vivid
temperament, of delightful contradictions, of genuine enthu-
siasms and high ambitions, and it is difficult to get a well-
balanced point of view of him ; and yet it is easy to write of him,
for he had rare charm of manner, with versatility and rather
ragged eloquence, nimbleness of mind and fine perceptions.
To his last day he was a boy in spirit. He would not have been
old if he had lived to be ninety. He had the secret of perpetual
youth of the Spirit. He had his ups and downs of temperament,
but hope and faith were his constant comrades, and with a flash
all gloom would vanish, and he would snap out some witty
phrase which would lift him up again. He had the gift of
levitation.

The last time I saw him was in the month of February, 1917,
in the house of a friend in Washington, the United States. He
had come over to see me from Philadelphia, and to hear me read
to him the play, The Money Master, which James Bernard Fagan
did from my book of that name. If he had lived I think he
would have produced it, and he would have played the weird part
with that whimsicality and distinction of which he was a master.
He returned to England and in a short time he was dead. It was
a sudden and a painless death, but he left behind him a host of
admirers and innumerable friends, who were deeply pained at
his going and who still miss, and will for very long miss, his
buoyant, piquant, powerful and distinguished presence. Faults,
of course, he had, as who has not ! But his chief fault to my

236

Pholoby] ["Daily Mirror.

" MICAWBER."

Photo by] [The Dover Street Studios.

" the man who was."

PholO by] [F. Buriord.

"ZAKKURI."

" ISIDORE IZARD."
A drawing by Charles Buchel

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND 237

mind was the boredom that success brought him. He hated
playing one part for a long run, in spite of the monetary benefit,
because his active temperament was always planning something
new. The artist in him was impatient with the arrest of pro-
gress— wanted to move on to other experiments and bolder
flights.

I suppose no man ever lived who worked harder or who had
a greater gift for work. I saw very much of him in the days
when he removed from the Haymarket Theatre to Her Majesty's
Theatre, and the ceaseless toil and responsibility never damped
his spirits. He kept alive and vigorous and hopeful, although
he was taking on a theatre which was larger than any actor
in London had ever had, and of which the fate was most uncer-
tain. He never lacked faith and hope ; he always believed in
the theatre, and I am proud and sorry that my play, The Seats
of the Mighty, opened it. I am proud because it was a great
theatre and a great honour to have presented therein its first
play, and sorry because I did not believe it could have a big
success. From the Isle of Jersey I wrote to Tree, and begged
him not to produce the play, and pointed out that the proper
sort of play to open a great theatre like that was one by Shake-
speare. His reply was a wire which said : " See Daily Telegraph
to-morrow." He had paid me advance royalties, and I had not
the power to prevent him from producing it ; but the mistake of
the play was in making a bad Frenchman like Doltaire the
central figure, and leaving Moray, the English hero, in the back-
ground too much. Tree's delight in the part made him make
this decision, and it was bad for him and his theatre, I think.
It had been first produced in Washington, the United States,
and then I saw that nothing could make the play a big success.
When it was again produced in New York, I was convinced of
it ; but Tree still had faith and hope. That was one of his
characteristics, when he had made up his mind to a thing it was
hard to move him. It was one of the secrets of his success, one
of the reasons why he left behind him a great reputation and
a considerable fortune.

He did what Irving did — he risked much financially to make
Shakespeare a success, and if his comparative wealth was not
made out of Shakespeare's plays, he won for himself a bigger

288 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

reputation. England and the Empire have reason to be grateful
to him, for he kept the flag of Shakespeare flying when few
others dared attempt it in London. He is the only actor of our
time, except Irving and Sir Frank Benson, who has continuously
and persistently presented Shakespeare's plays, and Benson
worked chiefly in the provinces. The scenic splendour of
Tree's productions has never been excelled by any actor of our
day, his fidelity to histrionic truth was remarkable, his sense of
the theatre was natural and intimate.

No one on the stage could inform a whimsical and weird part
with such an air of verisimilitude as Tree. His striking and
effective Shylock, his Malvolio, his Svengali, his Gringoire, his
Micawber, were examples of this rare art, with many others.
Yet with all his versatility and immense adaptability and appre-
ciation, he had not the heroic gift as had Edwin Booth or Salvini,
but he had gifts which they did not possess, and as an actor he
was greatly beloved by the theatre-going public. With Irving's
death he became, naturally, the head of his profession, and
Wyndham, Hare and Bancroft, actors of a somewhat older
school, accepted him in that light. His tireless energy, with
his instinctive perception, his talent for arranging things in a
dramatic way, his tremendous circle of acquaintances, renowned
and humble, his tact and finesse, made him a natural leader,
and he was strongly supported.

The people of England do not know, I think, that on his last
visit to America he spoke constantly from the stage at every
performance on the war and against the Huns, though there
were many Germans in his audiences. He had the courage of
his convictions. I read many of these speeches, and they were
Imperial in the right spirit, when the United States was slowly
but surely making up her mind what to do. So the last year of
his life was spent as an actor out of his own country, and yet as
a kind of missioner for the Entente. For this special service
his fellow-countrymen owe him a great debt.

One is glad to know that his theatre still prospers, and that
there is worthily maintained wirhin its walls the beautiful spec-
tacular side of Tree's work, but the place will never, in one
sense, be the same again. When people enter it, they will think
of Tree and of his twenty-two years of splendid work there, and

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND 239

just as the Lyceum became associated always with Irving's
name, so will His Majesty's be linked with that of Tree. He has
left behind him a wife, one of the wittiest and most brilliant
women alive, and very able and clever children. What their
sorrow is we can guess. Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree's work was
well done. One cannot say he died too young, but the gods
loved him, and he did die young — in spirit, in heart, in imagina-
tion. I recall with joy the hours spent in his company, always
vivid, human and stimulating, and I mourn his loss. We only
fully realize what a notable figure he was among us now that
he is gone. " After life's fitful fever he sleeps well." But his
name and fame live still.

FROM THE POINT OF VIEW OF A
PLAYWRIGHT

By Bernard Shaw

A tribute to Tree from the playwright's point of view is a duty
of such delicacy that it is quite impossible to be delicate about
it at all : one must confess bluntly at the outset that Tree was
the despair of authors. His attitude towards a play was one of
whole-hearted anxiety to solve the problem of how to make it
please and interest the audience.

Now this is the author's business, not the actor's. The
function of the actor is to make the audience imagine for the
moment that real things are happening to real people. It is
for the author to make the result interesting. If he fails, the
actor cannot save the play unless it is so flimsy a thing that the
actor can force upon it some figure of his own fancy and play
the author off the stage. This has been done successfully in
several well-known, though very uncommon cases. Robert
Macaire and Lord Dundreary were imposed by their actors on
plays which did not really contain them. Grimaldi's clown was
his own invention. These figures died with their creators,
1 hough their ghosts still linger on the stage. Irving's Shylock
was a creation which he thrust successfully upon Shakespear's
play ; indeed, all Irving's impersonations were changelings.
His Hamlet and his Lear were to many people more interesting
than Shakespear's Hamlet and Lear; but the two pairs were
hardly even related. To the author, Irving was not an actor :
he was cither a rival or a collaborator who did all the real work.
Therefore, he was anathema to master authors, and a godsend
to journeymen authors, with the result that he had to confine
himself to the works of dead authors who could not interfere

240

THE POINT OF VIEW OF A PLAYWRIGHT 241

with him, and, very occasionally, live authors who were under
his thumb because they were unable to command production
of their works in other quarters.

Into this tradition of creative acting came Tree as Irving's
rival and successor ; and he also, with his restless imagination,
felt that he needed nothing from an author but a literary
scaffold on which to exhibit his own creations. He, too, turned
to Shakespear as to a forest out of which such scaffolding could
be hewn without remonstrance from the landlord, and to foreign
authors who could not interfere with him, their interests being
in the hands of adapters who could not stand up against his
supremacy in his own theatre. As far as I could discover, the
notion that a play could succeed without any further help from
the actor than a simple impersonation of his part never occurred
to Tree. The author, whether Shakespear or Shaw, was a
lame dog to be helped over the stile by the ingenuity and inven-
tiveness of the actor-producer. How to add and subtract, to
interpolate and prune, until an effective result was arrived at,
was the problem of production as he saw it. Of living authors
of eminence the two he came into personal contact with were
Brieux and Henry Arthur Jones ; and I have reason to believe
that their experience of him in no way contradicts my own.
With contemporary masters of the stage like Pinero and Carton,
in whose works the stage business is an integral part of the play,
and the producer, when he is not the author in person, is an
executant and not an inventor, Tree had never worked ; and when
he at last came upon the species in me, and found that, instead
of having to discover how to make an effective histrionic enter-
tainment on the basis of such scraps of my dialogue as might
prove useful, he had only to fit himself into a jig-saw puzzle
cut out by me, and just to act his part as well as he could, he
could neither grasp the situation nor resist the impersonal com-
pulsion of arrangements which he had not made, and was driven
to accept only by the fact that they were the only ones which
would work. But to the very end they bewildered him ; and he
had to go to the box office to assure himself that the omission of
his customary care had not produced disastrous results.

Just before the production of my play we lunched together
at the Royal Automobile Club. I said to him : ' Have you

242 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

noticed during the rehearsals that though you and I are no longer
young, and have achieved all the success possible in our respective
professions, we have been treating one another throughout as
beginners ? ' To this, on reflection, he had to assent, because
we actually were, relatively to one another, beginners. I had
never had to deal with him professionally before, nor he with
me ; and he was quite unaccustomed to double harness, whilst I
was so accustomed to every extremity of multiple harness, both
in politics and in the theatre, that I had been trained to foresee
everything and consider everybody. Now if I were to say that
Tree foresaw nothing and considered nobody, I should suggest
that he was a much less amiable man than he was. Let me
therefore say that he never foresaw anything or considered
anybody in cold blood. Of the foresight which foresees and
faces entirely uninteresting facts, and the consideration which
considers entirely uninteresting persons, he had as little as a
man can have without being run over in the street. When his
feelings were engaged, he was human and even shrewd and
tenacious. But you really could not lodge an indifferent fact
in his mind. This disability of his was carried to such a degree
that he could not remember the passages in a play which did not
belong to or bear directly upon his own conception of his own
part : even the longest run did not mitigate his surprise when
they recurred. Thus he never fell into that commonest fault of
the actor : the betrayal to the audience that he knows what his
interlocutor is going to say, and is waiting wearily for his cue
instead of conversing with him. Tree always seemed to have
heard the lines of the other performers for the first time, and
even to be a little taken aback by them.

Let me give an extreme instance of this. In Pygmalion the
heroine, in a rage, throws the hero's slippers in his face. When
we rehearsed this for the first time, I had taken care to have
a very soft pair of velvet slippers provided ; for I knew that
Mrs. Patrick Campbell was very dexterous, very strong, and a
dead shot. And, sure enough, when we reached this passage,
Tree got the slippers well and truly delivered with unerring aim
bang in his face. The effect was appalling. He had totally for-
gotten that there was any such incident in the play ; and it
seemed to him that Mrs. Campbell, suddenly giving way to an

J'liolo by]

HENRY IIIGGINS IN " PYGMALION."

[F. I'.urford.

THE POINT OF VIEW OF A PLAYWRIGHT 248

impulse of diabolical wrath and hatred, had committed an unpro-
voked and brutal assault on him. The physical impact was
nothing ; but the wound to his feelings was terrible. He collapsed
on the nearest chair, and left me staring in amazement, whilst
the entire personnel of the theatre crowded solicitously round
him, explaining that the incident was part of the play, and
even exhibiting the prompt-book to prove their words. But his
moral was so shattered that it took quite a long time, and a
good deal of skilful rallying and coaxing from Mrs. Campbell,
before he was in a condition to resume the rehearsal. The
worst of it was that as it was quite evident that he would be just
as surprised and wounded next time, Mrs. Campbell took care
that the slippers should never hit him again, and the incident
was consequently one of the least convincing in the performance.
This, and many similar scenes that are told of Tree, will not
be believed by experienced men of business. They will say curtly
that it is no use trying to stuff them with stories like that :
that running a theatre like His Majesty's must have been a big
business, and that no man could possibly have done it for so
long without being too capable and wide-awake to forget every-
thing that did not amuse or interest him. But they will be quite
wrong. Theatrical business is not like other business. A man
may enter on the management of a theatre without business
habits or knowledge, and at the end of forty years of it know
less about business than when he began. The explanation is
that a London West-End theatre is always either making such an
enormous profit that the utmost waste caused by unbusinesslike
management is not worth considering, or else losing so much that
the strictest economy cannot arrest the process by a halfpenny
in the pound. In an industrial concern the addition of a penny
to the piecework rate or the hourly time rate of wages, the
slowing of a steam engine by a few revolutions, the retention of
a machine two years out-of-date, or the loss of fifteen minutes
work in the day by unpunctuality, may make all the difference
between profit and bankruptcy. The employer is held to rigid
conditions by a stringent factory code enforced by a Govern-
ment inspector on the one hand and by a jealous trade union
on the other. He is the creature of circumstance and the slave
of law with so little liberty for sentiment and caprice that he

16*

244 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

very soon loses not only the habit of indulging them but even
the sense of possessing them. Not so the manager of a theatre.
Tree was accustomed to make two hundred per cent, profit every
day when he was in luck. With such a margin to play with,
it was no more worth his while to economize or remember unin-
teresting things than it was to walk when there was a taxi at
his beck. When his theatre was built for him, the equipment of
its stage, apart from the electric lighting instalment, was exactly
what it would have been a hundred years before, except that
there were no grooves for side wings. If every employee on the
premises had come an hour late every day and had received
double wages, the difference in profit would have been hardly
worth noticing. A theatre is a maddening place to a thrifty
man of business, and an economic paradise to an artist, because
there is practically no limit to the waste of time and money
that may go on, provided the doors are open every night and
the curtain up half an hour later. But for this necessity, and
a few County Council bye-laws, an actor-manager would be as
unbridled as Nero, without even the Neronian check of a
Praetorian Guard to kill him if he went beyond all bearing.

There is no denying that such conditions put a strain on
human character that it can seldom sustain without injury. If
Tree's caprices, and his likes and dislikes, had not been on the
whole amiable, the irresponsibility and power of his position
would have made a fiend of him. As it was, they produced the
oddest results. He was always attended in the theatre by a
retinue of persons with no defined business there, who were
yet on the salary list. There was one capable gentleman who
could get things done ; and I decided to treat him as the stage
manager ; but until I saw his name in the bill under that heading
I never felt sure that he was not some casual acquaintance whom
Tree had met in the club or in the street and invited to come
in and make himself at home. Tree did not know what a stage
manager was, just as he did not know what an author was. He
had not even made up his mind any too definitely what an actor
was. One moment he would surprise and delight his courtiers
(for that is the nearest word I can find for his staff and entourage)
by some stroke of kindness and friendliness. The next he would
commit some appalling breach of etiquette by utterly ignoring

THE POINT OF VIEW OF A PLAYWRIGHT 245

their functions and privileges, when they had any. It was
amiable and modest in him not to know his own place, since
it was the highest in the theatre ; but it was exasperating in
him not to know anyone else's. I very soon gave up all expecta-
tion of being treated otherwise than as a friend who had dropped
in ; so, finding myself as free to interfere in the proceedings as
anyone else who dropped in would apparently have been,
I interfered not only in my proper department but in every
other as well ; and nobody gainsaid me. One day I interfered
to such an extent that Tree was moved to a mildly sarcastic
remonstrance. " I seem to have heard or read somewhere," he
said, " that plays have actually been produced, and performances
given, in this theatre, under its present management, before you
came. According to you, that couldn't have happened. How
do you account for it ? " "I can't account for it," I replied,
with the blunt good faith of a desperate man. " I suppose you
put a notice in the papers that a performance will take place
at half-past eight, and take the money at the doors. Then you
have to do the play somehow. There is no other way of account-
ing for it." On two such occasions it seemed so brutal to worry
him, and so hopeless to advance matters beyond the pre-
liminary arrangement of the stage business (which I had already
done) that I told him quite cordially to put the play through
in his own way, and shook the dust of the theatre from my feet.
On both occasions I had to yield to urgent appeals from other
members of the cast to return and extricate them from a hopeless
mess ; and on both occasions Tree took leave of me as if it had
been very kind of me to look in as I was passing to see his
rehearsals, and received me on my return as if it were still more
friendly of me to come back and see how he was getting on. I
tried once or twice to believe that he was only pulling my leg ;
but that was incredible : his sincerity and insensibility were
only too obvious. Finally, I had to fight my way through to
a sort of production in the face of an unresisting, amusing, friendly,
but heart-breakingly obstructive principal.

We finally agreed that I should have been an actor and he
an author; and he always sent me his books afterwaids. As
a matter of fact, he had a very marked literary talent, and,
even as an amateur, achieved a finish of style and sureness of

♦J40 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

execution that was not always evident in his acting, especially
when, as in the case of Pygmalion, he had to impersonate a sort
of man he had never met and of whom he had no conception.
He tried hard to induce me to let him play the dustman instead
of the Miltonic professor of phonetics ; and when he resigned
himself to his unnatural task, he set to work to make this dis-
agreeable and incredible person sympathetic in the character of
a lover, for which I had left so little room that he was quite
baffled until he lit on the happy thought of throwing flowers to
Eliza in the very brief interval between the end of the play and
the fall of the curtain. If he had not been so amusing, so
ingenious, and so entirely well-intentioned he would have driven
me crazy. As it was, he made me feel like his grandfather. I
should add that he never bore the slightest malice for my air of
making the best of a bad job. A few days before his death,
when he was incredibly young and sanguine, and made me feel
hopelessly old and grumpy, he was discussing a revival of
Pygmalion as if it promised to be a renewal of the most
delightful experience of our lives. The only reproach he ever
addressed to me was for not coming to Pygmalion every
night, which he thought the natural duty of an author.
I promised to come on the hundredth night, adding rather
unkindly that this was equivalent to not coming at all. The
hundredth night, however, was reached and survived ; and
I redeemed my promise, only to find that he had contributed to
my second act a stroke of comic business so outrageously irre-
levant that I solemnly cursed the whole enterprise, and bade
the delinquents farewell for ever.

The fact that Tree could do and be done by thus without
bloodshed, although he had all the sensitiveness of his profes-
sion, and all the unrestrained impulsiveness of a man who had
succeeded in placing himself above discipline from the beginning
of his adult life, shews that he was never quite unpardonable ;
and though this, to the world that knows nothing of the theatre,
may seem more of an apology than a tribute, those who know
the theatre best will understand its value. It has to be con-
sidered, too, that the statement that he did nothing unpardonable
does not imply that he did nothing irreparable. Almost all the
wrongs and errors of the West-End London theatre are like the

THE POINT OF VIEW OF A PLAYWRIGHT 241

wrongs and errors of the battlefield : they cannot be undonr.
If an actor's or an author's chance is spoilt, it is spoilt for years
and perhaps for ever : neither play nor part gets a second
chance. I doubt whether there is an actor-manager living who
has not done both these wrongs more than once. Tree was no
exception ; but as the result, like that of the elephant sitting
on the hen's eggs, was never intended, it was impossible to bear
malice for long. I have seen him try to help a very able Shake-
spearean actor, and, incidentally, to help Shakespear, through
what he thought a tedious scene, by pretending to catch flies,
with ruinous consequences to both player and Bard. He put
a new complexion on Brieux's La Foi, with effects on the
feelings of that illustrious author which I shall not attempt to
describe. He meant equally well on both occasions.

And here I come to a source of friction between authors and
actor-managers which is worth explaining with some care, as it
bears on the general need in England for a school of physical
training for the arts of public life as distinguished from the
sports. An author who understands acting, and writes for the
actor as a composer writes for an instrument, giving it the
material suitable to its range, tone, character, agility and
mechanism, necessarily assumes a certain technical accomplish-
ment common to all actors ; and this requires the existence of
a school of acting, or at least a tradition. Now we had no such
provision in the days of Tree's novitiate. He had not inherited
the tradition handed down at rehearsal by Phelps to Forbes
Robertson ; nor was there any academic institution with authority
enough to impress a novice of his calibre. To save others from
this disadvantage he later on founded the Academy of Dramatic
Art in Gower Street, which now supplies the want as far as an
unendowed institution can. But he had to do without teaching
himself. Like Irving, he had to make a style and technique out
of his own personality : that is, out of his peculiar weaknesses as
well as his peculiar powers. And here he sowed dragons' teeth
between himself and the authors. For no uncommissioned
author can write for an idiosyncratic style and technique :
he knows only the classical one. He must, like Shakespear,
assume an executant who can perform and sustain certain physical
feats of deportment, and build up vocal climaxes with his voice

248 HERBERT BEERROHM TREE

through a long crescendo of rhetoric. Further, he assumes the
possession of an English voice and an English feeling for splen-
dour of language and rhythm of verse. Such professional skill
and national gift are not accidents of personality : they are
more or less within every Englishman's capacity. By themselves
they will no more make an actor than grammar and spelling
will make an author, or fingering and blowing a bandsman ; but
one expects every actor to possess them, just as one expects every
author to parse and spell correctly and every bandsman to finger
and blow properly.

Tree, like so many of our actors who have picked up their
profession on the stage without systematic training, found that
he could not produce these stock effects. When they were de-
manded by the author, he had to find a way round them, and, if
possible, an interesting way. Thus he had not only to struggle
against his handicap, but to triumph over it by turning it into an
advantage. And his handicap was not a light one. Instead of
that neutral figure which an actor can turn into anything he
pleases, he was tall, and built like nobody else on earth. His
Dutch extraction gave him an un-English voice, which, again,
was like nobody else's voice and could not be disguised. His
feeling for verbal music was entirely non-Miltonic : he had a
music of his own ; but it was not the music characteristic of
English rhetoric ; and blank verse, as such, had no charm for
him ; nor, I suspect, did he credit it with charm for anyone else.

The results were most marked in his Shakespearean work,
and would certainly have produced curious scenes at rehearsal
had the author been present. No doubt it is an exaggeration to
say that the only unforgettable passages in his Shakespearean
acting are those of which Tree and not Shakespear was the
author. His Wolsey, which was a " straight " performance of
high merit and dignity, could be cited to the contrary. But
take, for examples, his Richard II. and his Malvolio. One of
the most moving points in his Richard was made with the assist-
ance of a dog who does not appear among Shakespear's dramatis
persona. When the dog — Ricl ard's pet dog — turned to Boling-
broke and licked his hand, Richard's heart broke ; and he left the
stage with a sob. Next to this came his treatment of the
entry of Bolingbroke and the deposed Richard into London.

THE POINT OF VIEW OF A PLAYWRIGHT 249

Shakespear makes the Duke of York describe it. Nothing could
be easier, with a well-trained actor at hand. And nothing could
be more difficult and inconvenient than to bring horses on the
stage and represent it in action. But this is just what Tree did.
One still remembers that great white horse, and the look of hunted
terror with which Richard turned his head as the crowd hooted
him. It passed in a moment ; and it flatly contradicted Shake-
spear's description of the saint-like patience of Richard ; but the
effect was intense : no one but Chaliapine has since done so much
by a single look and an appearance for an instant on horseback.
Again, one remembers how Richard walked out of Westminster
Hall after his abdication.

Turn now to the scenes in which Shakespear has given the
actor a profusion of rhetoric to declaim. Take the famous " For
God's sake let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the
death of kings." My sole recollection of that scene is that when
I was sitting in the stalls listening to it, a paper was passed to me.
I opened it and read : " If you will rise and move a resolution,
I will second it. — Murray Carson." The late Murray Carson was,
above all things, an elocutionist ; and the scene was going for
nothing. Tree was giving Shakespear, at immense trouble and
expense, and with extraordinary executive cunning, a great deal
that Shakespear had not asked for, and denying him something
much simpler that he did ask for, and set great store by.

As Malvolio, Tree was inspired to provide himself with four
smaller Malvolios, who aped the great chamberlain in dress,
in manners, in deportment. He had a magnificent flight of
stairs on the stage ; and when he was descending it majestically,
he slipped and fell with a crash sitting. Mere clowning, you will
say ; but no : the fall was not the point. Tree, without betray-
ing the smallest discomfiture, raised his eyeglass and surveyed
the landscape as if he had sat down on purpose. This, like the
four satellite Malvolios, was not only funny but subtle. But
when he came to speak those lines with which any old Shake-
spearean hand can draw a laugh by a simple trick of the voice,
Tree made nothing of them, not knowing a game which he had
never studied.

Even if our actors came to the stage with complete executive
mastery of all the traditions and all the conventions, there would

250 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

still be a conflict between the actor's tendency to adapt the play
to his own personality, and the author's desire to adapt the actor's
personality to the play. But this would not make any serious
trouble between them ; for a good part can be played a dozen
different ways by a dozen different actors and be none the worse :
no author worth his salt attaches a definite and invariable phy-
siognomy to each variety of human character. Every actor
must be allowed to apply his own methods to his own playing.
But if, as under our system, an actor, instead of laying the foun-
dation of a general technique of speech and action, is driven, by
the absence of any school in which he can acquire such a tech-
nique, to develop his own personality, and acquire a technique of
exploiting that personality which is not applicable to any other
purpose, then there will be friction at rehearsals if the author
produces his own play, as all authors should. For the actor will
inevitably try to force a changeling on the author. He will
say, in effect : " I will not play this part that you have written ;
but I will substitute one of my own which is ever so much better."
And it will be useless for the author to assert himself, and say :

' You shall play the part as I have written it." If he knows his
business, he will see that the " will not " of the actor really means

' cannot," because the author has written for a classical technique
which the actor does not possess and cannot learn in three weeks,
or even three years. It is better to let the actor do what he can :
indeed, there is no alternative.

What Tree could do was always entertaining in some way
or other. But, for better for worse, it was hardly ever what the
author meant him to do. His parts were his avatars ; and the
play had to stand the descent of the deity into it as best it
could. Sometimes, as in my case, the author understood the
situation and made the best of it. Sometimes, no doubt, the
author either did not understand the situation or would not make
the best of it. But Tree could not act otherwise than as he did ;
and his productions represented an output of invention on his
part that may have supplied many deficiencies in the plays.

One of his ambitions was to create a Tree Don Quixote. He
used to discuss this with me eagerly as a project we might carry
out together. " What I see," he said, " is a room full of men in
evening dress smoking. Somebody mentions the Don. They

THE POINT OF VIEW OF A PLAYWRIGHT iJ5l

begin talking about him. They wonder what he would make
of our modern civilization. The back wall vanishes ; and there
is Piccadilly, with all the buses and cabs coming towards you in a
stream of traffic ; and with them, in the middle, the long tall
figure in armour on the lean horse, amazing, foreign, incongruous,
and yet impressive, right in the centre of the picture." " That
is really a very good idea," I would say. " I must certainly carry
it out. But how could we manage the buses and things ?
" Yes," he would go on, not listening to me after my first words
of approval : ' there you see him going down the mountain-side
in Spain just after dawn, through the mist, you know, on the horse,

and " " And Calvert as Sancho Panza on the ass," I would

say. That always surprised him. " Yes," he would say slowly.

' Yes. Sancho, of course. Oh, yes." Though he had quite
forgotten Sancho, yet, switching instantly over to his Falstaff
line, he would begin to consider whether he could not double the
two parts, as he doubled Micawber and Peggotty. For your true
actor is still what he was in the days of Bottom : he wants to play
every part in the comedy.

But the heart of the matter (which I have been coming to
slowly all this time) is that the cure for the disease of actor-
managership (every author must take that pathological view of
it) is actor-author-managership : the cure of Moliere, who acted
his plays as well as wrote them, and managed his theatre into the
bargain. And yet he lasted fifty-one years. Richard Wagner
was author-composer-conductor-manager at Bayreuth : a much
more arduous combination. Tree should have written his own
plays. He could have done so. He had actually begun to do it
as Shakespear and Moliere began, by tinkering other men's plays.
The conflict that raged between him and me at the rehearsals in
his theatre would then have taken place in his own bosom. He
would have taken a parental pride in other parts beside his own.
He would have come to care for a play as a play, and to under-
stand that it has powers over the audience even when it is read by
people sitting round a table or performed by wooden marionettes.
It would have developed that talent of his that wasted itself in
jeux d 'esprit and epigrams. And it would have given him what
he was always craving from authors, and in the nature of the case
could never get from them : a perfect projection of the great Tree

252 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

personality. What did he care for Higgins or Hamlet ? His real
objective was his amazing self. That also was Shakespear's
objective in Hamlet ; but Shakespear was not Tree, and there-
fore Hamlet could never be to Tree what Hamlet was to Shake-
spear. For with all his cleverness in the disguises of the actor's
dressing-room, Tree was no mere character actor. The character
actor never dares to appear frankly in his own person : he is the
victim of a mortal shyness that agonizes and paralyses him when
his mask is stripped off and his cothurnus snatched from beneath
his feet. Tree, on the contrary, broke through all his stage
disguises : they were his robes of state ; and he was never happier
than when he stepped in front of the curtain and spoke in his own
immensity to the audience, if not as deep calling unto deep (for
the audience could not play up to him as splendidly as that), at
least as a monarch to his courtiers.

I trust in this volume he may find his bard, as Elliston found
Charles Lamb. It is my misfortune that I cannot do him justice,
because, as author and actor, we two were rivals who regarded
one another as usurpers. Happily, no bones were broken in the
encounter ; and if there is any malice in my description of it, I
hope I have explained sufficiently to enable the reader to make the
necessary allowance and correction.
December, 1919.

J'holo by]

HERBERT TREE I'JM-

[C. Vandyk, I hi.

AN OPEN LETTER TO AN AMERICAN FRIEND*

By W. L. Courtney

You ask me to give you some idea of Herbert Tree — what
principles he stood for in art, what was his contribution to the
English stage, what was the basis of his personal popularity.
And I find it hard to give you satisfactory answers, for two
reasons, one of which has to do with you and the other with
myself. Let me take the latter first. I have been a friend
of Tree for more than a quarter of a century — a rather intimate
friend, with whom he would discuss matters concerning which he
would remain silent with others. He talked freely with me
because he thought (and I hope he thought rightly) that I would
understand him and sympathize with him. Therefore, now
that he is dead, you may be sure that I shall instinctively take
rrk part, and though I may suggest certain lines of criticism,
I shall naturally be inclined to laudation rather than censure.
I was fond of Tree, and because he had a real affectionateness
of disposition — which sometimes he carefully disguised — com-
panionship with him was always easy and pleasant, and to me
delightful.

And now let me turn to your side of the question. I take
it that judging Tree entirely from the outside, you have some-
times wondered why, on this side of the Atlantic, we thought so
much of him. You were aware that his first visit to America
some years ago was more or less of a failure, and that his idio-
syncrasies struck people in that continent more forcibly than
his positive qualities. On the occasion of his last visit you
were minded to make exceptions and discover differences ; you
tolerated his Cardinal Wolsey, though the slow delivery of

* First printed in The Fortnightly Review, August, 191 7.

253

254 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

his speeches irritated you ; you admired the sumptuous manner
in which the play was set on the stage, though sometimes you
thought that the frame was too ornate for the picture. When it
came to Thackeray, you frankly rebelled. You considered his
Colonel Newcome not the ideal of an English gentleman, but the
laborious effort of an actor to look like it ; it seemed to you
that the pathos was wrong, the humour sometimes misplaced,
the sentimentality too much in evidence. You never saw Tree
in Dickens, did you ? I ask because in David Copperfield Tree
gave two performances, both of them admirable. He was both
Dan'l Peggotty and Micawber, and of the two I think the Peggotty
was the better. He was also a very vivid and picturesque
Fagin. And the moral of my remark is that the pathos of Dickens,
the humour of Dickens, the sentimentality of Dickens suited Tree's
art better than the similar qualities (which exist in a very different
form) in Thackeray. If Tree had been a reader of books — he
emphatically was not — he might have understood Thackeray
better. You cannot get at the author of " Vanity Fair " from
the outside, or by any ingenious or brilliant a priori methods ;
you have got to live with him in prolonged intimacy ; his books
must be at your bedside ; his curious, elusive spirit, half-preacher,
half-cynic, must be your constant companion. With Dickens
it is different. You can have a very good bowing acquaintance
with Dickens and do him little or no injustice. His characters
have the melodramatic tinge and strike one easily and forcibly.
They are not pure creations of the Comic Spirit like some of the
characters of Thackeray and Meredith. Farce, sheer, undiluted
Farce, enters into them so largely that for stage purposes they
suit admirably an actor with a frank liking for caricature.

And that reminds me that you have not seen — I do not think
I am wrong — Tree's Falstaff or his Malvolio. You have missed
a good deal, though, perhaps, you would have had the uneasy
feeling that these, too, bordered on caricature. But did not
Shakespeare intend them for caricature ? I am thinking for the
moment of Falstaff in the Merry Wives of Windsor, not of the
hero of Eastcheap. In the historical plays Falstaff is far too
prodigious a creature to be included in any of our usual cate-
gories. He is a world in himself. He has an overpowering
humour and a most wistful pathos. He is Every-man, enlisted

AN OPEN LETTER TO AN AMERICAN FRIEND 255

in a riotous conception of life and working to his doom with a
blithe, devil-may-care recklessness. Shakespeare never traced
on his canvas a more wonderful being, so detestable and so
lovable. But Falstaff in the Merry Wives is a caricature, and
Tree, who accepted him as such, gave a ripe, unctuous per-
formance of an All-fatness, oozing out drink and a maudlin
sentimentality at every pore, which was quite irresistible.
Malvolio belongs to the same order of humanity, the fatuous ego-
tist, the pedantic megalomaniac. Tree was clearly doubtful
whether average audiences would understand the conception,
for he repeated Malvolio in the servants who formed his retinue
and who, in their turn, caricatured the caricature. In the hey-
day of Malvolio's pompous idiocy Tree excelled ; when it came
to the poor pedant, bullied, imprisoned and tortured, it was, of
course, another matter. But has anyone reconciled the earlier
and the later Malvolio ? Henry Ainley, who did so well in the
part at the Savoy Theatre, found himself confronted with the
same difficulty.

You will have gathered, of course, that versatility was Tree's
chief characteristic, or, as some might say, his besetting sin.
Versatile he undoubtedly was ; he tried to show his skill in
very different fields of dramatic work. He essayed tragic
roles — at one time he was very anxious to act King Lear, as a
pendant or culmination to his Macbeth, his Othello, his Hamlet.
He was a comedian either with or without a touch of melodrama ;
he made his name originally in farce, as those know who saw his
Private Secretary. Versatility is undoubtedly a perilous gift ;
you know how a so-called versatile man is supposed to waste
himself and his talents in many channels of activity — and to
succeed in none. I have said a ' so-called versatile man '
because no man is really versatile ; he only thinks he is, or
is idly so reported by others. There is always one thing he
does which is better than others, despite his many-sidedness,
and if he is wise, he will discover what it is and cultivate it to
the best of his ability. Tree liked to be considered many-
sided ; indeed, he resented any suggestion to the contrary, and
for this reason, I suppose, wrote two books, though he ostenta-
tiously declared that he was not a book-reader. His restless
and unbounded activity was compelled to show itself in various

256 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

fields ; I do not think I ever came across any man who was
more pertinaciously and assiduously alive. He was " a dragon
for work," as they say, and had a greater range of vivid interests
— literary, political, social, dramatic — than most of us can
lay claim to. His quick alertness of spirit, his ready apprehen-
sion, his humour — which at times verged on the macabre — made
him a most stimulating companion. He always saw objects
from the less obvious standpoints and delighted in all that was
unconventional and paradoxical. His wit was never mordant,
nor was it always very pointed. And his epigrams were for the
most part ebullitions of high spirits.

But if you ask me in what, within his own proper sphere of
work, the dramatic, Tree was best, I answer without hesitation.
It was, as perhaps you might gather from what has just been
said, in the representation of fantastic, eccentric, bizarre charac-
ters, characters with a twist in them which made them peculiar
and original. Here a long list of successes testifies to the actor's
easy mastery. I take some names — just as they occur — Svengali
in Trilby first and foremost, a fascinating study ; the hero and
villain in A Man's Shadow ; Izard in Business is Business ; Cap-
tain Swift ; Montjoye in A Bunch of Violets ; the spectacled
Russian detective Demetrius in The Red Lamp ; Dr. Stockmann
in The Enemy of the People — there is so long a list that I should
weary you if I gave even a tithe of them. But let me add at
least the curiously sympathetic impersonation of Caliban, a really
remarkable effort of imagination in the sphere of animality,
which was in its way quite as illuminating as Browning's Caliban
on Setebos. To see Tree make up for his part was a privilege I
often enjoyed. There in his dressing-room you saw the artist
at work, the creative artist who adds touch after touch to com-
plete the picture, until suddenly the whole conception bursts
into significant life. When Tree had thoroughly got inside
the skin of a character — which often took some time — he seemed
to partake of a new and alien life. A singular illustration was
Zakkuri in the Darling of the Gods, in which by degrees Tree
gave us, I do not say a true, but an extraordinarily vivid and
convincing portrait of a Japanese statesman in all his horrible
subtlety and coarseness. Another example was Izard in Busi-
ness is Business. Tree was never a smoker in the true sense

AN OPEN LETTER TO AN AMERICAN FRIEND 257

of the word ; he only smoked for the sake of companionship, taking
a modest fourpenny cigar, while he gave his guest Coronas.
But in Izard he was perpetually smoking big and black-looking
cigars. I asked him how he managed to stand it ; he answered
that, as it seemed natural to the character, he found it easy
for himself. Off the stage he could not have done it ; on the
stage it was appropriate and therefore a piece of unconscious
mimicry. Svengali smoked, I think, cigarettes or long Vevey
fins. The Duke of Guisebury smoked, quite as to the manner
born, a pipe — a luxury in which Tree, the individual, not the actor,
never indulged.

You must forgive me for rambling on in this desultory fashion ;
I want you to understand how, for those who knew him and
liked him, Tree the man, over and above all the parts he assumed,
gained his great personal ascendancy. It is Tree the man I
remember now, and, doubtless, my appreciation of his per-
sonality colours all my judgment of his acting. It is Tree the
man who figures in my memory, and perhaps his shade — if
such things can vex those who have passed into the land of
shadows — is inclined to rebuke me for writing about him. For
I recall an incident bearing on the point. He asked me one
night at supper at the " Garrick " what I had been writing. I
answered that I had been trying to write an obituary of my
friend, H. D. Traill. " That must be an odious task," he said ;
" the more you like a man the less ought you to write about him."
I agreed, but remarked that journalism required such heavy
sacrifices of feeling and affection ; and that, anyway, it was
better that an obituary notice should be written by a friend
than by a merely critical observer. This is my only defence
now in taking up my pen. In many ways I should have pre-
ferred to be silent. To say nothing is the only becoming attitude
for friendship. But however more congenial it may be to be
silent and to remember, there are other considerations which
are bound to be operative. " You are always a little cold
when you write about me," Tree said to me once. " Is not that
natural ? " I replied. " You know the old adage about a cold
hand and a warm heart." " It is all very well to dissemble your
love. But why did you kick me downstairs ? " Tree quoted
gaily. " But, of course, I understand," he added with a genial

258 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

smile. As a matter of fact, we never had even the slightest
difference in all the twenty-seven years of companionship. With
most men he had an open, genial manner which they found very
attractive. Even his occasional affectations — which no one
laughed at more heartily than Tree himself, but which obviously
he could not help— did not annoy them, because they found them
amusing. I am not sure, however, whether women understood
him as well as men — any more than the average woman can
understand why to some of us Falstaff is as great a creation
as Hamlet.

Yes, I know what you are thinking at this moment. You
imagine that I shrink from the main issue and that I am toying
with purely subsidiary points just because I find it difficult
to solve your main problem. I answer, however, that some
things, perhaps subsidiary and unessential as you feel, must be
understood first before we are in any position to arrive at a
positive conclusion. Let us admit without reserve that Tree
as a personality was greater than anything he accomplished ;
but you must allow me to observe that that in itself is a com-
pliment, and in the case of many artists a very great one. More-
over, it makes no little difference in the result how and in what
spirit you approach the consideration of a character. To me the
important point is to ask what a man can do, not to worry
yourself about what he cannot do. The latter attitude leads to
purely barren criticism and an enumeration of unilluminating
negatives. The former gives one interesting glimpses of psy-
chology. It is the same with other things besides men. It
is true of a piece of mechanism like a bicycle or a motor-car ;
it is true also of a dog or a semi-personal being, like a ship. You
will never get the best out of such objects, you will never get
the best out of ordinary human relations, unless the positive
occupies you more than the negative, what can be done rather
than what cannot. Do not smile at such truisms. So far as I
can judge, they are often quite curiously and wantonly dis-
regarded by many men, most women, and a large proportion of
critics.

Somewhere — I think in " The Mirror of the Sea " — Mr. Joseph
Conrad remarks that certain ship-masters are like Royal
Academicians. They are eminently safe, but they never startle

AN OPEN LETTER TO AN AMERICAN FRIEND 259

you by a fresh audacity of inspiration or a touch of originality.
There are actors of a similar kind. They are quite sure of
themselves, they can be trusted to do the right thing at the
proper moment, they are recognized leaders of the profession
who will always give you the same sort of acting, quite good,
quite reputable, quite adequate (hateful word !), but devoid of
any disturbing brightness of emotion or fancy. No one could
charge Tree with belonging to this solemn order of artist. He
was always unexpected, daring, original ; he often gave one a
shock of surprise, welcome or unwelcome. He was good when
you anticipated a relative failure ; poor, when you could have
wagered on his success. His acting was never monotonous, rarely
the same from night to night. Like his conversation, it was full
of quick turns and unlooked-for spurts of vivid, graphic, pic-
turesque, satisfying the eye, even when occasionally he failed to
satisfy the mind. When he was acting Mark Antony in the
Forum scene he broke off the famous speech in the middle, came
down from the rostrum, and finished his speech standing on a
broken pillar. I argued with him about this, suggesting that
if Mark Antony was really holding his audience he would never
have altered his position. Tree answered : ' ' You forget the soon-
wearied eye of the spectator ; he becomes tired of one situation
and demands another. Besides," he added, with a whimsical
smile, " change is a necessity for my nature." It was indeed.
And, owing to this he became tired and bored with his part,
and sometimes broke off the run of a piece in the midst of a brilliant
success ! I anticipate what you will say, my critical friend !
You will remind me that I am describing the qualities of an
amateur, not of a professional. I do not shrink from the con-
clusion. Tree had all the best points of an amateur, and some
of his triumphs were gained just for that reason. He wa-
glorified amateur who dared things which a professional ne\ < r
would have dared, and won a shining victory. He mistrusted
all talk about technique. " I have not got technique," he once
said ; " it is a dull thing. It enslaves the imagination." And
when he established his school in Gower Street, in which I v.
able to render some small help, he retained some doubts, which
were afterwards dispelled. " You cannot teach acting," la-
said. No, but you can prepare the groundwork by means of which

17*

260 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

the natural aptitude gets its chance. And this he subsequently
recognized to be the case.

What were the positive contributions of Herbert Tree to the
English stage ? Here, there is some room for dissent and dis-
agreement ; I will only put down certain facts in the form
in which they appear to me. Remember, in the first place, that
he inherited a great tradition from Henry Irving, who had set a
magnificent example of stage-production at the Lyceum. Tree
was at first content to carry on the tradition on similar lines.
He produced plays with extreme care for detail and many
appeals to the eye. There was never anything slipshod either
in the method of stage representation or in the attention paid
to what the diplomats call " imponderabilia." Indeed, it was
the care taken over the minutiae which guaranteed the effective-
ness of the whole. Thanks in especial to Irving and Tree, Lon-
don stage-production reached a higher level of completeness
and finish than was to be seen in foreign capitals. Sarah Bern-
hardt and other foreign visitors acknowledged that in this respect
they did not do things better in France. Gradually Tree bettered
the examples of his predecessors. His critics said he over-
elaborated his effects ; his friends were never tired of welcoming
new grades of beauty. I take only two instances out of many
which offer themselves in recollection. Probably there never
was a more beautiful stage picture than Olivia's pleasaunce
in Twelfth Night. We talk of the hanging gardens of Babylon
as of something legendary and rare. Here before our eyes
were to be seen Olivia's hanging gardens, a dream of exquisite
and appealing beauty which seemed to bring out the more
clearly by contrast the vulgarity and coarseness of Sir Toby
Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek, while it enhanced the delicacy
of Viola and Olivia herself. The other example I will take
from the Midsummer Night's Dream. You will recall that,
though the scene is supposed to be laid in the neighbourhood
of Athens, the feeling, the atmosphere of the play belong
essentially to Stratford and England. Accordingly, Tree gave
us, alternately with some marble seats and olive trees, splendid
glimpses of British forests in which the fairies ran wild and
Bottom and his companions rehearsed their uncouth theatricals.
Anything more restful to the eye than these glades of sylvan

AN OPEN LETTER TO AN AMERICAN FRIEND 261

beauty I have never seen on any stage. I used to drop into
the theatre while the play was going on just to realize once
more the solemn delightful effect of the old beeches sheltering
the wayward fancies of Oberon, Titania and Puck, and pro-
viding a rehearsal ground for Py ramus and Thisbc. I must
c.lso add something about the elaborate scene at the end of the
play when the pillars of the Duke's palace glow with internal
light to enable the fairies to carry on their domestic tasks of
making everything clean and sweet for the mortals. It was
beautiful, but perhaps too elaborate. One missed in this case
the note of simplicity, the wise sobriety of an accomplished
artist who would not strive "to do better than well " lest he
should " confound his skill in covetousness." There were
charming pictures, too, in the Tempest, little sea-fairies peeping
round the edges of the rocks, while Ariel sported in the pools,
which one remembers with gratitude. But, indeed, the time
would fail me if I were to recount half the wonders which the
magician Tree displayed before our eyes in play after play.
You may call him a consummate decorator, if you like, le Tapis-
sier de noire Theatre, as Luxemburg — was it not ? — was called
by reason of his conquest of flags and other costly stuff, le
Tapissier de Notre-Dame. But I maintain that he had the
eye, the feeling, the touch of an artist.

It would be a small matter to decorate the outside of the
vase if it did not contain within itself rare and exquisite
essences. Tree soon realized that decoration in itself could
only please the groundlings or the dilettantes, and that the
main matter of consequence was the spirit in which the whole
adventure was attempted. What was the character of the
adventure? It was to give the British stage dignity as well
as charm, high seriousness as well as aesthetic adornment. It
was for this reason that from time to time he put before his
public— a clientele, by the way, which was always steadily
growing — stately performances of Shakespearean plays, inci-
dentally proving that our great English dramatist did not
necessarily spell bankruptcy, but, judiciously treated, might
be made to yield a fair percentage of profit. He varied his
programme with lighter fare, as a matter of course ; a m;in who
had undertaken the responsibility of so large a theatre as His

262 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

Majesty's was bound to keep a steady eye on the booking-office
and replenish his coffers now and again by popular appeals.
Unfortunately, our public is not always spurred and exalted to
finer issues ; and though Shakespeare under special conditions
can become almost popular, a certain melodramatic blatancy
— or at least insistence — has a more distinct pecuniary appeal.
Where theatres are not supported by municipalities or the State,
the lessee and manager is forced to " go here and there and
make himself a motley to the view " for base considerations of
solvency. But Tree did not forget the higher obligations of
the position he had attained. As head of the profession, he
realized his responsibilities. He was full of the idea of the im-
portance of the theatrical art, as a main instrument of culture
and as a most necessary element in civic and social life. He
did not work merely for his own hand, but upheld the claims
of his calling. He instituted a Shakespearean week — a most
costly undertaking— in order to keep alive our indebtedness
to the Elizabethan stage. He presided at meetings, made
speeches, inaugurated movements, pushed and encouraged various
policies, in order to prove that actors were important elements
in the community who had their proper functions in the body
politic. You know how many speeches Tree made in the United
States, not because speaking was easy to him — it never was —
but because he felt it to be his duty to represent British in-
terests and ideals in this appalling universal war. Only a
week or two before his death he told me that he often composed
the speech he was presently going to deliver while he was de-
claiming Wolsey's long " farewell to all his greatness " before
his audience in Henry VIII.

There is no doubt that the career of this well-equipped actor
and most competent manager and lessee had a beneficial effect
on the English stage ; for Tree had a great organizing ability
and admirably quick and valuable intuitions. But you will
naturally ask me a question which has long been on the tip of
your tongue — I am writing to you as though I actually saw and
witnessed your impatience — the question as to Tree's attitude
towards the future of the dramatic art. Granted that his
influence on his contemporary public was all to the good, what
about his relation to novel movements and to those efforts

AN OPEN LETTER TO AN AMERICAN FRIEND 368

which zealous innovators have made to " reform " the drama ?
The future of the English stage ! Ah, but will you tell me what
is the future ? There was a movement some few years back, to
which I will return presently. But what is the prospect now ?
Looking superficially at existing facts, one might give several
replies. Apparently the tendency at the present moment is
in the direction of light, frivolous entertainments, only intended
to amuse and distract men's minds from the horrible preoccupa-
tion with the war. American comedies have had their chance,
and succeeded in proportion to the farcical elements they have
contained. Revues flourish as much as ever — perhaps rather
more than they used to. Composite entertainments, musical,
droll, heterogeneous, are in vogue, especially if they have
enlisted in their company at least one clever woman and one
reputedly clever man. Mr. H. B. Irving, with admirable bold-
ness, tried Hamlet, but it had to be withdrawn for want of
support. Serious plays seem to be at a discount, unless, like
M. Brieux's plays, Les Avaries and Les trois fdles de M. Dupont,
and Ibsen's Ghosts, they make an appeal which is not mainly
histrionic. Doubtless some of these phenomena are due to the
unreal conditions of the time ; they are symptomatic not of
currents of artistic or inartistic fashion running below the sur-
face, but of our unrest, our weariness, our irrepressible feeling
that, set against the lurid background of ceaseless warfare, no
artistic effort matters very much. Meanwhile our theatres are
full — when they are full — of officers and soldiers on leave, accom-
panied by their sisters or cousins or lovers, who only want their
military friends to be happy — and this is not the kind of
theatrical audience which cares for dramatic art or even desires
to think at all. Tree brought back from America a piece in
which he strongly believed. The Great Lover, I think, was its
name. He had every intention of producing it forthwith ;
but what success it might have secured under present conditions
is an unsolved problem. The great success in London is, of
course, Chu Chin Chow, a piece beautifully presented and full
of elaborate and admirable pictures. But it is hardly a play in
the sense in which you and I understand the term.

Still, you remember that there was a movement going on a
few years back, which we associate with Granville Barker and

264 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

with a competent body of actors — Ainley, Nicholson, Leon
Quartermaine, Lilian McCarthy, and others.* It was an effort
in the direction of greater simplicity of stage presentation and
the abolition of long waits between scenes and acts. It revealed
to us, for instance, that some of Shakespeare's plays could be
given in three hours without any cuts and omissions — so that
we might be seeing the plays more or less as the author intended
that we should. Time was gained by making the actors speak
faster, without wearisome pauses and unimpressive silences.
I don't think I have ever heard an actor speak with such rapidity
as Ainley achieved as Laertes in A Winter's Tale. The move-
ment included some elements of mere freakishness, as when
Barker gave the fairies in Midsummer Night's Dream gilded faces.
But the scenery, though elementary, was to a sufficient degree
picturesque, and the acting was persuasively good. A similar
method applied to Macbeth or Othello would have been very
instructive. Meanwhile Twelfth Night, so treated, had a real
effectiveness of its own. And the daring experiment of putting
Mr. Hardy's The Dynasts on the boards was, within the limits
prescribed, a triumph.

I do not think that Tree had much sympathy with this move-
ment. He took a great interest in it, of course, just as he did
in the Russian Ballet, which he visited as often as he could.
But so far as I could make out, he preferred older methods.
With regard to the Russian Ballet, he once remarked, with no
little acuteness, that it struck him as " the gilded plaything of
an effete autocracy ; " and with regard to Granville Barker's
productions he seemed to feel — though I do not remember a
definite statement — that they were bizarre, freakish experiments,
which could only appeal to a section of the public and not to
the great mass of theatre-goers. For himself, remember that
he had the vast auditorium of His Majesty's resting on his
shoulders, and that he was bound to consider the tastes, not
of sections, but of the public at large. He always insisted on
this fact. " I have to find something which will be agreeable
to stalls, upper circle, pit, gallery — all at once." And directly
we think of the many-headed public who keep theatres going,

* Mr. Martin Harvey tried similar experiments in Taming of the Shrew and
Hamltt.

AN OPEN LETTER TO AN AMERICAN FRIEND 265

and the difficulty there is in finding a common focus for their
ardent, unsophisticated enthusiasm and their uncritical approval,
we shall begin to recognize the burden laid on theatrical entre-
preneurs, and the necessary contrast between their point of view
and that of irresponsible dramatic critics.

I do not know if I have satisfied your curiosity in these few
remarks of mine. I recognize that yours is a legitimate curiosity
from the standpoint of a man like yourself, who stands outside
our more intimate interests and desires to view the situation
in its broad and general features. To you Herbert Tree is an
actor and a manager who has done certain large things in a
large way, and has either succeeded or failed. To us he is a
many-sided personality, in whose case mere histrionic success
is only one element in a complex and varied whole. On one
point I think you may feel confidence. If you admit that Tree
fills a conspicuous space in our admiration and regard, you will
also have to accept this as a solid fact — even though it may
surprise you — with which you have to reckon. He has had
many admirers and no few devoted friends. He was believed in
as a force in our dramatic world, as a man who consistently held
a high ideal for our stage, and employed his sympathy, his
energy, and his own remarkable powers in a valiant attempt at
its realization. That is a simple fact which cannot be gainsaid ;
and it must enter into your general estimate on the other side
of the Atlantic, as it has already done and will increasingly do
into ours on this side.

A high ideal for the stage ? Perhaps you stop over this
phrase and feel some hesitation in adopting it. But if you do,
you are up against one of those baffling points in psychology
which affect many other men besides Tree. How much of the
ideal must be sacrificed in daily practice if anything whatever
is to be achieved ? Does the ideal cease to be an ideal if it ever
be forgotten ? Can one worship the ideal in secret and deny it
in the open light of day ? Is compromise a reputable, even
if necessary, policy ? Ah, who shall scrutinize his conscience
without many pangs of self-reproach in questions like these ?
That Tree produced some unworthy pieces it would be absurd
to deny. He did, and he knew he did — just as he knew also
that he must keep up a great theatrical establishment and

266 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

transact a vast business, for which the possession of funds was
obligatory. I remember one occasion at a club after the pro-
duction of a gaudy melodrama — I will not mention its name for
fear of getting into trouble with the author — when some of us
were chaffing — I think you call it " chipping " — Tree concerning
some of its banal effects and its " popular " character. He
loved being chaffed, or, at all events, he bore it with unflinching
good humour, and riposted gaily on his critics. As a matter
of fact, the piece was a pecuniary success. But Tree by himself
was in a different mood. He knew what he was doing, and
was not proud of it. " Compromise, the god of the shiftless," he
used to say.

You remember Henry James's ironical little story, ' The
Lesson of the Master " ? In that you will find the philosophy
of the matter. An older novelist preaching to a younger novelist,
warns him against being seduced from his high ideals by such
encumbrances as a wife and children and the obligation of
keeping up a costly and hospitable house. The young writer
is duly impressed until he discovers that his mentor — even after
his melancholy experience of what marriage can do to deaden
aspiration — deliberately marries again, and marries the very
girl with whom the young disciple of the master was in love !
How shockingly cynical, one says, and then, after a moment's
deliberation, how abominably true ! It is true, my friend, and
true of all of us. A little clearer vision and then the clouds come
down again. A glimpse of pure high aether of heaven and then
the rain-splashed earth. We do what we must and not always
what we can. Let him that is without sin cast the first stone.
I, at all events, have no wish either to bombard you with truisms
or to cast stones at Tree. His was a fine, courageous, indomit-
able character ; and over and over again, for his delight and ours,
he drew from his intellectual instrument the finest music that
nature had hidden in it, and played it as it should be played.
Peace be to his ashes — he will be much and widely missed.
Multis Me bonis flebilis occidit.

TIME SHALL NOT ALTER MEMORY

Time shall not alter memory nor chill

The smile you wore to one of mute despair

Within our hearts, in looking back to where

Your radiant, eager face grew dim and still.

It is so small a thing that time can kill,

And there remains the solemn deathless flare

Of starry thoughts that spangle all the air.

And breathe the breath of forest and of hill.

For there remains the beauty you awoke,

The mutual love that nothing can revoke.

The dreams you beckoned and the words you spoke

That called forth gladness and that smoothed out pain.

Your smile lives still, as sunsets that retain

Their light upon some golden window-pane.

Iri» Tree.

APPENDIX I

SERMON PREACHED BY THE BISHOP OF BIRMINGHAM
AT THE MEMORIAL SERVICE, 12TH JULY, 1917

A Memorial Service is not to be confused with the laying to
rest of the one departed. I always feel that round the graveside
one would only have those with whom the link of love was very
close indeed, and that it is more respectful for all except the very
inner circle to be absent in body, though they may be earnestly
praying and sympathetic at the time of the funeral.

It is therefore good, surely, in the case of a man of many
friends and of great public standing, that there should be some
opportunity in the House of God of expressing certain almost
uncontrollable feelings.

We are here to-day in very truth friends of the great artist
and the loyal comrade who has gone so suddenly from us. We
desire by our presence to show that we understand something at
least of the sorrow which must be felt by those from whom much
of the light of life has gone out through their bereavement.

Our friendship we find it easy to declare to-day for a reason
given in regard to friendship by Sir Walter Scott : " There is
no time when we are disposed to think so highly of a friend as
when we find him standing high in the esteem of others." In
very truth I doubt whether Sir Herbert Tree ever realized in this
earthly life how fond men were of him. He had a kind of absent-
mindedness, which some people thought to be almost aloofness,
and which held them back at times from the kind of companion-
ship which is the outward expression of affection, but his death has
unloosed shy tongues, and as they tell of how much their owners
cared for Herbert Tree, so we all are bold to bear our testimony

269

270 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

to the fact that we know we have lost one of the small number
of the greatly valued, the rare spirits with the magnetic power of
making us fond, and with a breadth of sympathy which we only
now fully realize.

We desire to testify in a special way to the deep respect we
feel for the one in whose memory the Service is held.

We desire again to thank God publicly for the gifts He bestows
upon men to enable them to do their life's work, and for the special
talents He grants to some people in order to make them useful
and blessed influences upon their human kind.

We wish also to mingle our prayers before the Throne of the
Great Architect and Ruler of the Universe that everlasting oppor-
tunity of useful life may be given in the other world to the one of
whom we are thinking.

This Service is not one of utter mourning : it is with " one
auspicious and one dropping eye " that we are present here to-day.

Sir Herbert Tree was indeed greatly gifted, and he had been
wisely guided in the choice of his profession. I am myself of
opinion that for dramatic usefulness and success, the actor must
be singularly and completely a personality. I do not believe
that anyone who is not himself a marked individuality can enter
thoroughly into great characters so as sufficiently to absorb their
peculiarities to make the spectator and auditor feel the characters
are being presented in their very habit, as they lived.

Mediocrity can never personify greatness.

In one of his books Sir Herbert Tree says that it seemed that
to him the rarest thing in the world was independence of mind,
the faculty of thinking and acting for oneself. He certainly him-
self exemplified the quality, for he was a man of striking indi-
viduality ; he was one to whom his craft was a sacred calling, and
whilst this ensured that everything which he himself produced
was put out with thoroughness, it made him revolt against any-
thing which was shoddy or even incomplete. In fact, I suppose,
now and again, it made him almost impatient with a public taste
which was content with the hasty and ill-considered efforts of any
who did not feel that it was all- important to give the very best in
the cause of Art.

His treatment of Shakespeare on the stage has been questioned,
but that he desired to honour the genius by scrupulous care in his

APPENDIX I 371

expression of the poet's meaning all would acknowledge. His
own words express the feeling : " As it is the player's chief est joy
to speak the poet's words upon the stage, so it is his high privilege
to trace upon the poet's abiding monument his own fleeting
name."

I am not sure that we may not acknowledge first of all as our
cause of indebtedness to Sir Herbert Tree that he reminded us that
whatever our lot in life may be, all work should be sanctified, and
should be all done in the Great Taskmaster's eye.

And yet Sir Herbert was one who could be interested and was
interested in matters outside his immediate labours. He was a
man with strong national feeling. He had great gifts of expres-
sion both by tongue and pen on important matters, and in this
hour of strife and of bitter feeling it is not the least of the things
that we should be thankful for in Sir Herbert Tree that he was
international as well as national in sympathy.

We must never forget that during his last visit to the United
States he was a most successful exponent of the position of Great
Britain in this awful war. He was an unofficial but most
influential ambassador of right.

When sometimes I have watched actors imitating the voice
and mannerisms of our friend, I have pondered over the fact that
it is just those whose speech and gestures can be most easily
imitated, whose depth and force are most difficult to copy. We
have heard many people speak in imitation of Sir Herbert Tree,
but we have none of us known any man quite like him.

Into the question of his religious feeling and belief I do not
to-day intend to enter. That he did believe in the great unseen
world and that he had a longing to pass within the veil for the very
purpose of understanding more of the True and Eternal Life, I
happen to know.

That he recognized the claim upon his loyalty and devotion
of the God of all the World, his performance of his great public
duties testified. To his own Master he standeth or falleth. God
knows better than any of us what we feel towards Him ; nay, even
if our heart condemn us, God is greater than our heart, and
knoweth all things.

There was something surely typical of the mentality of Sir
Herbert Tree in the last words he spoke upon this earth : " Will

272 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

you open the window ? " and for him, as he uttered the words,
the new vision was unveiled.

" Here we see through a glass darkly: " the window opens and
we look out upon the landscape beyond and we enjoy a purer and
a better air.

May we not confidently believe that as Sir Herbert felt
the first freshness of the atmosphere of Paradise, things before
only vaguely conceived of, became by him understood, and in
very truth a fuller life began.

Our American friends have an expression which they use as
to the active people of this earth — they speak of a forceful
character as a " live " man. Few people were ever more fitted
to that expression than was Sir Herbert Tree. It is impossible
to believe in his not having a life " yon side."

" 'Tis life of which my nerves are scant,
'Tis life not death for which I pant,
More life and fuller that I want."

His imagination was full and his brain was active till that
second when the clogged heart stopped. I am sure that the
God who used him on this earth has for him, as for all who
earnestly strive to do their best with the qualities bestowed
upon them, greater and grander work in the realms of Eternity
than ever they did here.

And so we leave him, believing that death is not the passing
from light to darkness, but from twilight into fullest sunshine.

May we not quote in regard to his passing these lines so
familiar to many of us :

" Life, we have been long together
In pleasant and in stormy weather ;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,
Perchance 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ;
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time, say not ' good-night,'
But in some brighter dims bid me ' good-morning.' "

APPENDIX II

SPEECHES MADE AT THE UNVEILING OF THE

MEMORIAL TABLET

[From a report in The Times, 28th May, 1919.]

Mr. Asquith, at the request of the subscribers, unveiled the
memorial tablet to Sir Herbert Tree which has been placed on
the Charles Street wall of His Majesty's Theatre.

The memorial, which was designed by Mr. W. H. Romaine-
Walker, takes the form of an oval bronze tablet, wreathed with
laurel and surmounted by the masks of Tragedy and Comedy.
The raised letters upon it are inscribed, " This theatre was
founded in 1897 by Herbert Tree, Actor, and directed by him
until his death, 1917."

At a meeting inside the theatre, Mr. C. F. Gill, K.C., hon.
treasurer of the committee, presided, and he was supported on
the stage by Mr. Asquith, Lord Reading, the Bishop of London,
Sir Squire Bancroft, and Mme. Clara Butt. The large audience
included a great number of Sir Herbert Tree's personal friends,
as well as comrades in the theatrical profession.

The Chairman explained that it had been felt that nothing
would be more in accordance with Sir Herbert Tree's wishes
than the erection of a tablet on the wall of the theatre with
which he had been so long associated. No actor that ever lived
had been more devoted to his art.

Mr. Asquith, who was received with loud cheers, said :

We have just unveiled, in the open air, a memorial to one of
the great artists of our time, fittingly placed where every one who

273 18

274 HERBERT BEERBOIIM TREE

passes by can see it, in the wall of the theatre which he himself
built and for many years directed. It is often said, and said
with truth, that of all the arts that of the actor is the most
evanescent, leaving behind it nothing but a memory which in
time fades into a tradition, llazlitt, in my judgment one of the
best of our critics both of literature and the drama, once said
that though we have speeches of Burke, portraits of Reynolds,
writings of Goldsmith, and conversations of Johnson, and though
all those four great men were united in their admiration for the
genius of Garrick, yet nothing remained to enable us to recon-
struct and to revive the unique spell which was exercised over
his contemporaries by that most gifted of all actors.

Yet it was Dr. Johnson who said that the greatest thing
about Garrick was his universality. It is in that sense, and
perhaps only in that sense, that it is true of the most illustrious
and historic figures of the stage that, as Theseus says in A Mid-
summer Night's Dream, " The best in this kind are but shadows."
At the same time, among all artists, there is none towards whom
among the public of his time there is the same sense of gratitude
and personal relationship as the actor. We feel that we share
with him a kind of intimacy which we do not experience with
the painter or the sculptor or even the poet.

I remember in the days of my youth, when Mr. Gladstone
was at the height of his fame and was often called the " Idol of
the Nation," that a shrewd observer once said, " If you were to
take a plebiscite as to who was the most popular man in England,
he would be easily beaten by Dr. VV. G. Grace " — (laughter) —
and I cannot help thinking that he would have found a most
formidable competitor in Henry Irving.

Of all the actors of our time there have been few, if any,
for whom that sentiment not only of admiring, but also affec-
tionate, interest has been more widely felt than for Sir Herbert
Tree. (Cheers.) It is not that he adopted catchpenny allure-
ments and artifices which, as Hamlet says, " make the judicious
grieve." He was an artist through and through, and took his
art seriously. He was perhaps the least mercenary of men ;
he was sometimes profuse almost to a fault. There was nothing
that he grudged in time, money, industry, study, even drudgery
itself to the profession to which he had given his life.

APPENDIX II 275

That was equally true of him as manager and as actor. The
magnificence, not of vulgar display, but arising from infinite
painstaking and from a passion for thoroughness, with which he
put his pieces on the stage was characteristic of the man. It was
the same with the scrupulous care which he gave even to the
smallest minutice of the text in his productions of Shakespeare.

I remember well two years ago, when he had just come back
from America, a very few weeks before his lamented death, he
came to spend a night with me in the country, and he occupied
a considerable time in arguing with humour, and I need not
say with ingenuity and persistency, what I thought a flagrant
heresy, that in the last scene in Hamlet what the Queen really
said was not, " He is fat and scant of breath," but " He is faint
and scant of breath." That was very characteristic.

It is related of Hogarth, our great painter, that he once
said to Garrick, whom he had just seen in one of his most melo-
dramatic parts, "' You are in your element when you are begrimed
with dirt or up to your elbows in blood." Many of us may have
been tempted to say the same of Sir Herbert Tree, only to find
him a week or two later impersonating with equal naturalness
and gusto the most debonair of fine gentlemen or the most
supersubtle of diplomatists. The truth is he left nothing to
chance in his art, and as an actor he added to his large natural
endowment of gifts and graces all the resources of elocution
and make-up, and what may be called the ancillary arts of the
stage. In range and versatility of parts I believe the unanimous
verdict of many experts, whom I see before me, will confirm what
I say, that he was unsurpassed by any actor of our time.
(Cheers.)

If I may pass just for a moment from what he did as an
artist and as manager to some other aspects of his personality,
you will, I am sure, agree with me that long before he died he
was acknowledged by the whole profession to be one of their
natural leaders, a spokesman of singular and almost unique
felicity of address, to whom they could always safely entrust
the task of making their appeals, whether the claim to be en-
forced was on behalf of charity or of art. His geniality and spirit
of comradeship, as they knew well, could never be too severely
tasked.

18*

276 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

What he was in the more intimate and less public relations
of life only those who, like myself, were privileged for years to
enjoy his friendship can realize. I will only say that there is
not one of his friends, and they were many, who does not feel
the poorer for the loss of that wealth of vitality and that unfailing
reservoir of true kindness and affection. But here in this place
and in this company let us remember him, as he would most have
wished to be remembered, as a worthy, and indeed an out-
standing, figure in the great procession of artists, the Burbages,
the Bettertons, the Garricks, the Keans, whose memory is the
treasured inheritance of the English stage. (Cheers.)

Lord Reading : I thank Mr. Asquith for his address on
behalf of Sir Herbert's family and of the subscribers to the
memorial, and for this graceful and eloquent tribute to our
dear friend. I shall only add one or two personal words about
Tree. He was undoubtedly an artist in every sense of the term.
He took infinite pains to stir the imagination. He was versatile
in an extreme degree. One phase of that versatility has not
been mentioned, and perhaps it occurs more appropriately to me
because I refer to his visit to America only a little before
his death. I was not there at the time, but I read of Sir Her-
bert's doings in the English newspapers. When I went to
America soon afterwards, I heard of him not only as an actor
and as an artist, but also as a patriot, taking his stand in crowded
audiences, addressing the Americans, telling them of the aims
and efforts of this country and its Allies, and stimulating them
as he had always the power to stimulate all those who listened
to him.

Tree had a great career as actor and as artist. I would fain
add also that he was a true patriot. No one who knew him for
even a brief space of time could fail to note his charm. He was
never dull ; he was always stimulating and interesting. Let
us think what it is to say that of a man through this dull
and sometimes dreary life. He had a keen enjoyment of the good
phrase, and he loved the bon mot. I am speaking the sober
truth when I say that Tree had the keenest enjoyment of any
phrase he had himself been able to coin, or any bon mot he had
sped on its way. (Laughter.) No one could know him without

APPENDIX II 277

realizing that he was a great, loyal, generous-hearted man, who
loved his life, loved his art, loved his friends and associates, and
took infinite pleasure in all those joys which were so rightly and
properly the accompaniment of the artist's life.

Sir Squire Bancroft : While under the spell of the eloquence
we have listened to, to open my lips even as a postscript calls
for temerity. But as the flight of time has left me, I am told,
the doyen of the English stage, I feel it to be my duty, as it surely
is my privilege, to say how great a loss Herbert Tree was to it,
and to hope that his strenuous life, his boundless courage, his
splendid productions, and, above all, his brilliant imagination,
may inspire his comrades to follow in the footsteps which have
left such memorable marks.

After the Bancroft management came to an end, it was a
relief to my wife and to me to see the Haymarket Theatre in
the hands of Herbert Tree, and to feel the confidence that its
traditions would be well maintained. Then followed his long
and honourable career in this handsome theatre, which he built
and loved.

It is men like Herbert Tree who forcibly remind us that
though the orchard may not always yield its choicest fruit, and
the vineyard may sometimes begrudge its most luscious grapes,
the beautiful art of acting will live on ; it is as undying as it is
alluring — a proud possession, being " not of an age but for all
time."

Mme. Clara Butt sang " The Lost Chord," one of Sir Herbert
Tree's favourite songs, and a delightful ceremony ended with
a Blessing pronounced by the Bishop of London.

APPENDIX III

[On his return from America in 1916, Herbert Tree wrote two

articles for The Times.]

IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA

[From The Times, September 8th, 19 16.]

I. " NOT BAD FOR A YOUNG COUNTRY "

The face, or shall I say the surface, of America has entirely
changed since I first made its acquaintance twenty years ago.
New York largely dominates the current of the nation's life,
colours its atmosphere, and dictates its fashions.

The two striking impressions one receives on arriving in
New York City are its architecture and its luxury. Geographical
necessity was the mother of the sky-scraper. By day these giant
towers convey an impression of garish splendour ; at night they
are spectrally imposing. As there is no twilight in the city,
so are there no half-tones in the life of the people. The dusk
of Broadway is chased by the blazing electric signs which
dazzle the stranger as a transformation scene of some advertising
fairyland. But it has a beauty of its own. The gaiety of New
York at night is most striking. Dancing proceeds in all the
restaurants and hotels. But the gaiety is normal and indigenous ;
it seems to be the natural outcome of the restless energy of the
climate and the people. Let no one assert that there is no
national American music. This new art of sound is, to the
new-comer, more nerve-shattering and bewildering than that of
Strauss or of the music-futurists. After the first shock the
orchestral monstrosities of ragtime become haunting in their
fascination. It is as though you were drawn into the depths
of chaos by a maelstrom of sound. Yet in this riot of sound and
movement there is always something " respectable." It has

278

APPENDIX III 279

the Latin exuberance of high spirits rather than the Saxon
rowdiness of the flesh.

The hospitality towards English visitors is prodigal. Whereas
in former times there was a tendency to depreciate the English
people, their manners, their customs, and their want of humour,
one is struck to-day by the sympathetic courtesy and the better
understanding with which ourselves and our work are regarded.
Although there is a considerable section of the community which
is pro-dollar, the vast majority in the East are enthusiastically
pro- Ally ; and this whole-hearted sympathy is reflected in the
Press. The measures taken towards the Irish rebels did much
at the time to alienate the sympathy of many Americans from
the British cause. At some Irish public meetings, indeed, the
" Watch on the Rhine " was sung ; but the intemperate language
of the leaders of the movement was almost universally condemned.

In the Middle West and in the West the pro-Ally sentiment
is less pronounced ; and certainly the newspapers in some of
the cities are inclined to devote larger type to the victories of
the Central Powers than to those of the Entente. This neutral
tepidness may be in no small measure due to the remarkable
efficiency of the German propaganda. Great applause, however,
was called forth by the assertion that, but for the British Fleet,
American soil would long ago have been invaded by the present
enemies of the Allies ; and the conviction is daily gaining ground
throughout the United States that Great Britain, in righting
for the Allies, is righting the cause of America. There can be
no better proof of this American sympathy with the Allied cause
than the vast sums which have been collected — more than
$50,000 having been sent to the English, French, Russian,
Belgian and German funds, the vast proportion of which went
to the Allies. To sum up, it is not too much to say that the
sentiments of the great majority of the inhabitants and the
Press of New York are no less pro-Ally than the Allies them-
selves.

Shortly after my arrival in America, I started for California
in order to fulfil a contract to present Macbeth in a series of
moving pictures. We spent Christmas Day at the Grand Canyon.
On our arrival a blinding snowstorm blotted out the view. We
turned our backs upon the mountains and were making for our

280 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

hotel when the snow stopped and light came. On looking
back we saw the mountains in cold, barren grandeur. At first
they seemed like the habitation of some forbidding god — one
was appalled by the vast uselessness of this empty waste — not
a tree, not a shrub was to be seen. But Nature had surprises
yet in store, and soon provided us with a feast of infinite variety.
Now from the valley ascended a curtain of white mist. The
act was finished. After an interlude of five minutes the curtain
slowly rose ; the sun burst forth, and, shining through the
dissolving mists, revealed the most wonderful transformation
scene I have ever witnessed, as Nature in a frolic mood threw
prismatic somersaults — three rainbows spanned the horizon. A
voice behind me disturbed the spell : " Not bad for a young
country, boss ! " it remarked. I assured the speaker that it was
most promising.

We pass through New Mexico's vast desolation of uncultivated
landscape, fringed with snow-capped mountains. We arrive at a
railway station, where tame Indians are selling toys and painted
pottery. The surrounding country is dotted with camps of
Indians ; picturesque women on horseback are riding to and fro.
The life of their little villages appears to be happy, and they
still disdain the less picturesque civilization offered them in
exchange for their freedom. The livelihood they earn suffices
for their needs. Their social amenities are elemental. They
have more wives than the more recent inhabitants of America ;
but I am given to understand that they divorce them less
frequently.

At last we are in California. There is the welcome green
of the trees, the orange groves are aglow, and I smell for the
first time, away from a wedding, the scent of the orange olossoms.
At Los Angeles the Mayor welcomes me. I undergo the in-
evitable mental vivisection at the hands of the representatives
of the Press, and am asked to a banquet given by the Los A ngeles
Examiner, to which the leading citizens are invited. The inter-
viewing, which is more a cross-examination than an exami-
nation-in-chicf, being overcome in an hour and a half, my next
objective is the Fine Art Studio, situated at Hollywood, a suburb
about seven miles out. My first step is to hire a motor-car.
Life at Los Angeles would be impossible without these " peram-

APPENDIX III 281

bulators." Everybody in the city seems to be possessed of a
car — there are 200,000 of them in California.

At the Studio, as our car stops, we are surrounded by a
motley crowd, all painted and costumed, among whom are Red
Indians, cavaliers, moderns, gorgeous Babylonians, and cowboys.
Suddenly there is a terrific explosion as a dozen cowboys fire
their pistols into the air. This is a welcome ! Recovering from
the shock, and finding myself, happily, unwounded, I raise my
hat to the cheering crowd. My instinct tells me that I am in
the midst of a democratic society. A fair-haired little boy
of five years old approached. He is, I afterwards discovered,
one of the most popular film actors. The infant phenomenon
wore a long garment, on which was sewn in large letters the word
" Welcome," and coming towards me with extended hand, at
once put me at my ease by saying : " Pleased to meet you,
Sir Tree." By way of making conversation, I ventured : " And
how has the world been using you these last few years ? " With
a world-weary shrug of the shoulders, it replied : " Well, I
guess this world's good enough for me ! ' It is a land of many
babies, but few children.

I turned my eyes towards a stage of many acres — on which
was raised the City of Babylon. Yes, there, solidly built, was
the mimic City of Babylon. You can wander up a great street
peopled by thousands of actors and stage employees, all clad
in the costumes of the period. Life-sized elephants decorate
the buildings and huge images of gods and goddesses confront
you at every turn.

As I ascend the steps of the temple I hear in the distance
a great noise as of a cheering crowd ; nearer and nearer it comes,
four chariots gallop past at full tilt, followed by hundreds of
soldiers on horseback, the populace escaping miraculously from
the menacing hoofs and wheels. Not only are the actors
expert and daring riders ; the horses, too, are marvellously
trained for this kind of work. The wonder is how few accidents
occur in the pageantry of this remarkable film directed by Mr.
D. W. Griffith, who, it will be remembered, was responsible for
The Birth of a Nation. The new picture beggars all description
— it has taken two years to prepare, and its production must have
cost between £100,000 and £150,000.

282 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

Mr. Griffith is an imaginative artist, his energy is amazing,
and he apparently has a supreme indifference to money. To
be a spectator of his latest work is like having gold flung in
one's face. The pains taken to secure archaeological accuracy
in these pictures, which in the course of the play cover many
periods of history, are beyond anything hitherto known to stage
producers.

I imagine that this work will be the high water mark in the
way of film production. Huge sums are frequently lost in these
enterprises ; and it is probable that the present prodigality
of outlay will not be of long duration. I believe the art of
the moving picture has not yet found its feet. It has hitherto
been largely imitative of the theatre. It is likely that a natural
cleavage between the spoken and pictorial drama will take place.
I believe that the future use of the moving pictures will be
largely educational ; I believe that in coming generations history
and geography will be largely taught through this fascinating
medium. On the other hand, I do not think that in great cities
the vogue of the cinema will be abiding as far as the drama is
concerned. And a taste for the regular theatre will have been
created among the millions who daily witness the primitive
dramas of the " screen."

In England we have no conception of the vast influence of
the moving picture industry in America, where it has become
part of the national life of the people. There is at home a ten-
dency to sneer at the serious work which is undertaken by striving
artists such as Mr. Griffith — witness the brilliant ridicule by which
the film of Macbeth was anticipated. I refer, of course, to Sir
James Barrie's recent remarkable contribution to Shakespeare's
Tercentenary. It is the invariable fate of any new movement
to be ignored until it has taken root among the great necessities.
Steam, electricity, telegraphy, wireless telegraphy, the motor-car
and the airship were all scoffed at until they became part of the
daily life of the people.

It is to-day impossible to ignore the moving picture, and the
best thing we can all do is to see that this great new force is
directed into the right channel ; in its sway over popular opinion
it has an influence no less than that of the Press itself, for it
makes its daily emotional appeal to millions of people, young

APPENDIX III 283

and old. If, after the war, we are to have a Ministry of Fine
Arts, one of its duties should be to see that this new power
is beneficently used in the education and the humanization
of the multitude. The theatre, too, should have the protection
of the State. I refer not only to the higher branches of the
drama, but to the lighter forms of entertainment which bring
diversion and happiness to the public. Such State recognition
would do much to discourage the taste for the scented hogwash
which is so lavishly provided for the unthinking.

[From The Times, September 9th, 1916.]
IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA

II. WHERE ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE

I am tempted to give a description of the life of the studios
of Los Angeles, in which many thousands are employed. The
community of the studio is the most democratic I have ever
faced ; but from first to last, during my stay, I never met with
any discourtesy from the many hundreds among whom my life
was spent. The work of the pictures is done in an atmosphere
of happiness and high spirits, which makes its frequent monotony
bearable.

In the productions there is a systematic absence of system.
Sometimes an artist will have to wait one, two, or three weeks
before he is called upon to take up his share of the work ; then he
will often work fifteen or sixteen hours a day. This latter was
my experience in the preparations of Macbeth. The process
of photography takes place partly in the studio by artificial
light (the rays of which are somewhat trying to the eyes), partly
in the open air of the studio, and partly in " locations " — that
is to say, in country scenes.

When going on " location " (there obtains in California a
curious love of Latin words), the entire party are driven to their
destination in motor-cars. We would sometimes start for the
mountains at midnight, and proceed to a country inn, be dressed
by seven o'clock to catch the early sun, and ride forth on horse-
back, all caparisoned and bewigged, towards the " location "
of the " Blasted Heath "—there to meet the Witches. The
inhabitants of California are so accustomed to fancy-dress that
the approach of Macbeth, of Banquo, of Macduff, and their
retinues caused no surprise, for of Los Angeles it may be said
that all the world's a stage and all the men and women merely
" movies."

284

APPENDIX III 285

The mimic coronation of Macbeth at Scone took place about
forty miles from Los Angeles at a place called Chatsworth.
Thither the actors and hundreds of supernumeraries, together
with the " properties " of the occasion, were conveyed in motor-
cars and motor-omnibuses. This scene was taken in brilliant
sunlight, while the arrival at the King's camp of Macbeth and
Banquo after the victorious battle was photographed at two
in the morning, the scene being lighted by huge electric lights.
Through the ranks of the cheering soldiers surrounding their
camp fires and through the flaring lights projected on their
faces, Macbeth and Banquo galloped with the news of victory.
This nocturnal scene was deeply impressive. The interior of
the Witches' Cavern was enacted in a scene built in the studio.
One scene was photographed no less than a dozen times ; this
ordeal was a somewhat trying one in the watches of the night.

Acting to the lens requires a peculiar temperament, and de-
mands much more " natural " method than that of the stage ;
the great requisite in the actor is the power of momentary self-
excitation. A mere resort to the technique of the theatre would
not " register " satisfactorily on the film — a relentless detective.
To the new-comer it is somewhat disconcerting to act a scene
of carousal immediately after your death-scene. In the great
studios one will often see as many as ten different plays pro-
ceeding on adjacent stages, a farce being acted in close proximity
to a scene of tragedy. A quick and versatile temperament
in the actor is required for the work of the " screen," and, al-
though I had little difficulty in acclimatizing myself to the new
conditions, I confess I have not outlived my preference for the
spoken drama. It is only by the exercise of one's imagination
in visualizing the perspective of vast crowds of spectators that
one can maintain the pitch of excitement necessary for the fine
frenzy of the scene. The sets for Macbeth were all built ; the
scene of the King's Castle in the last act, solidly constructed in
a " location " outside Hollywood, was fully equipped with a moat
filled with water, a drawbridge, and battlements, over which
the attacking army clambered, stones being hurled and boiling
pitch being poured on them.

All the leading actors of America have been " immortalized '
in the pictures ; and at this moment Mr. S. H. Sothern, who,

286 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

after an honourable career has lately retired from the regular
stage with an enviable fortune, and will shortly make his per-
manent home in England, is acting on the " screen." Among
those whom I met in California was the renowned " Charlie
Chaplin." Contrary to expectations, I found him to be a young
man of a serious and sensitive disposition, who has artistic
ambitions of a kind not suggested by his public records, and who
in private life is thoughtful as well as versatile and entertaining.

The cost of living in California is much more reasonable
than in other parts of the States. One can hire a well-appointed
bungalow, surrounded by an acre of garden, filled with flowers
and orange, lemon, grapefruit and eucalyptus trees, and be well
attended by Japanese servants, who are excellent cooks. How-
ever hot the days may be (I never found them oppressively so),
the evenings are always cool. It is pleasant to take motor drives
to the coast. At Santa Monica, about twenty miles distant
from the. city, there is an excellent inn, nightly filled with happy
revellers ; during dinner and supper all join in the dancing, and
there is a rag-time band which puts high spirits into the minds
and the toes of the feasters, who are composed largely of those
employed in the picture- wo rid. Driving home through the
night one passes through the scent-laden orange and lemon groves.

The roads are wonderfully well-adapted for motoring. I
was astonished to notice that the fields on each side of the track
are decorated with roses and other flowering plants. One may
pass through these herbaceous borders for twenty or thirty miles.
The motor annihilates one's sense of distance. On one occasion,
in response to a dinner invitation, I drove from Los Angeles to
Santa Barbara, starting on a return journey after midnight,
thus covering a distance of 210 miles. For ten miles the road
had been washed away by flood, and we had to traverse this
distance through sand. Friendship has its penalties.

Another pleasant pastime is to be found in the mountain
excursions on horseback. The horses are well trained, many
of them being used in the wonderful battle pictures of the films.
After one becomes accustomed to the Mexican saddles, their
seat is most comfortable. There is only one drawback to these
equestrian exercises — the horses, which are wonderfully trained
by cowboys, are apt to perform all manner of unexpected gyra-

APPENDIX III 287

tions ; to their standing up proudly on their hind-legs and beating
the air with their hoofs one rapidly becomes accustomed ; but
when, by an unconsidered jerk of the reins, one unconsciously
gives them the cue to die, they are apt to fling themselves prone
on the ground ; thus a histrionic instinct is liable to bring dis-
comfort to the rider unaccustomed to the exigencies of the film.

After the strenuous life of California, the most welcome
rest I ever experienced was that passed in the railway train from
Los Angeles to New York. As the coming guest was welcomed
with salvos of pistols at the hands of " cowboys," so was the
parting guest speeded. On my arrival in New York I drove from
the station to attend the first rehearsal of Henry VIII. In
New York the earth seems to spin more quickly round its axis ;
happily, the vitalizing climate enables one to keep pace with
its quickened revolutions ; and the preparations for the Shake-
speare Festival were only part of the daily duties which con-
fronted one. Many hours each day were devoted to these
preparations ; interviews in the newspapers were part of the
daily routine ; and every evening and most afternoons a speech
was exacted, till one felt the kind of impetus which afflicts those
that cannot walk but needs must run.

Our great anxiety as to the fate of the Shakespeare Festival
was set at rest on the first night, when Henry VIII. was pro-
duced in the manner familiar to Londoners. The success of the
Shakespeare representations exceeded all our most sanguine
expectations and falsified the widespread predictions that New
York would not tolerate Shakespeare. We were fortunate,
indeed, that our season synchronized with the Tercentenary
celebrations. The incense of these celebrations blew our way ;
certainly the theatre was nightly filled by crowded audiences ;
and the run might have been continued for the entire season
of three months but that I wished to carry out the promised
programme of giving a Shakespeare Festival ; separate runs
of The Merchant of Venice and The Merry Wives of Windsor
were accordingly given.

To celebrate Shakespeare Day a performance was organized
on Monday, April 24th, for the British Red Cross Fund. A varied
programme was provided, consisting of scenes from Macbeth,
Henry IV. (Falstaff's scenes), the abdication scene from

288 HERBERT BEERBOIIM TREE

Richard II., and scenes from Twelfth Night. American audiences
are quickly responsive — they are very little like our cosmopolitan
London audiences ; but they are quicker to leave the theatre
at the end of the play, and accordingly the actor's speech (when
insisted upon) has to be delivered at the end of the penultimate
act. New York audiences, moreover, are more enthusiastic
in the mornings than in the evenings (probably owing to the
preponderance of young people and students).

Among many memorable occasions during my stay in New
York, the one that made the deepest impression on my mind
was that on which my comrade Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson
and I were invited to give addresses in the Cathedral of St. John
the Divine on Easter Sunday, Shakespeare's birthday. It was
natural that I regarded this request as a signal honour to our
stage. Nothing could have been more imaginatively touching
than to take part in the homage paid by this great nation to the
master in whose service the better part of our artistic lives had
been passed. Nor have I ever been more deeply moved than by
the impressive service and the inspiring music which choired
in the same hour the two men who have spiritually and humanly
most influenced mankind. It was with a sense of awe and
solemnity that I mounted the pulpit from which the Bishop had
just spoken in such glowing words of Shakespeare's genius
and of the high mission of our calling ; it was with a natural
trepidation that I faced the congregation which filled the vast
cathedral. I shall not readily forget the dignified beauty of the
tribute delivered by my comrade Forbes-Robertson.

Though absent from the Tercentenary celebrations which
took place in London, it was no small consolation to know that
we were able to contribute to the general acclaim of the poet
which found enthusiastic utterance in every important city
throughout the United States.

[In 1917, after his last visit to America, Herbert Tree wrote
the following articles for the Daily Chronicle. Of these, together
with the articles in The Times, and with some additional matter,
he intended to make a small book. On the very last day of his life
he was busy with this scheme.]

MORE IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA
[From the Daily Chronicle, June 13th, 1917.]

Under this heading I propose to set down some American
impressions and experiences, and to chronicle the vast changes
which have been wrought in America during the last six months.

It is a fortnight since I left New York in a riot of pro-Ally
enthusiasm. Had anyone ventured to prophesy such a trans-
formation a year ago he would have been regarded as a madman
or a sensational journalist. A great tidal wave has swept from
the East to the West. The awakening of America is but a part
of the world-movement which caused the revolution in Russia.
It has come as suddenly, its causes are no less deep-rooted, its
consequences will be no less overwhelming. It is the birth of
the New Life.

In recording these impressions, my point of view is human
rather than political. Nor do I pretend that they are more than
snapshots. But it may be claimed that the most valuable
impressions are the first and the last : the interim is often but
as a blurred phantasmagoria of undigested realities.

THE CONTRAST OF CITIES

A brief holiday in London during last September enabled
me to receive a fleeting impression of the changed conditions at
home. Black streets, men in khaki hurrying to and fro ; men in
blue limping hither and thither ; women in uniform ; vice in
crape dancing rag-time ; a greater simplicity of living ; the
pervading irrepressible Cockney humour ; and a sense of fate
somnolent and pregnant, overbrooding all.

289 19

290 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

Thence back to New York. What a contrast between these
cities. Here I find no hint of impending war — it is just a frenzy
of luxury, a hectic gaiety which belongs to this nervous vital
climate. Here is none of the tender languor of our own dull,
balmy atmosphere. Here the electric current is destructive
of romance — one's impulse is to " do and do and do." In this
land of light and publicity, it is the reporter who is the first to
welcome the coming, as he was the last to speed the parting
guest. It is from the searching questions of the reporter I learn
on my arrival that for the last four days of our voyage on the
steamer Philadelphia a fire had been raging in the hold of the
ship. I tell him that I had been wholly unaware of the danger
through which we had passed ; and thus the suggestion that the
fire was but another instance of " f rightfulness " only adds to
my thankfulness that we had escaped the perils of the contending
elements of fire and water. My friendly interlocutor assures me
that the obituary (or " post-mortem ") which had been prepared
for me was of the most flattering nature and hints that its inser-
tion is only a pleasure deferred.

It is well at once to capitulate to the reporter — an American's
home is his interviewer's castle. The average American does
not luxuriate in that sacred unpublicity in which most English-
men prefer to pass their private lives. It is the climate of New
York which largely governs the lives of the inhabitants of this
electric city. On each successive visit to New York, I have been
struck by its vital and energizing influences. One may be worn
out, but one is never tired. The electric quality in the air is,
indeed, sometimes disconcerting to the new-comer. It has
happened that on my being presented to a lady, a complete
stranger, we have in shaking hands experienced a mutual electric
shock which has caused us both to start back with an involuntary
exclamation. ' Pardon my electricity," seems but an inadequate
apology in such moments. I have found that one's liability to
this inconvenience varies with one's health. The climate
demands a less vigorous diet ; the increased abstention from
alcohol, although the national " cocktail " still survives, is very
marked. I noticed in addressing City clubs that alcohol was
not served at all at luncheon. As there are few half-tones in
the landscapes, so are there few half-tones in the character of

APPENDIX III 291

the people. There is an absence of twilight, of that mystery
so characteristic of England. In the same way the houses and
gardens are not surrounded by walls. They are open to the
public view. The only walls I remember to have seen were those
of a base-ball stadium and a lunatic asylum — the one presumably
to keep people from getting in, the other to keep them from getting
out. As there is a fiercer publicity, so is there a greater frankness
in the life of the people. In fashionable hotels at tea-time young
couples will sit hand-in-hand, feeling no awkwardness or shyness
in this public intimacy. This frankness, which extends even to
telegrams (most of which arrive in ungummed envelopes), may
be an explanation of the " leakages " on the Stock Exchange
of which we have recently heard.

Life in New York is largely that of the restaurant. The
contrast between the greater simplicity of living at home and
the luxury of New York is indeed striking. Here the waste
of a day's food would placate an army of anarchists. At all the
great hotels there are nightly dances ; and entertainments
in the way of bazaars and fancy dress balls are constantly given.
These are chiefly devoted to Red Cross and other War Funds.
Such entertainments are given throughout the country, and
everywhere women are busy in devising and carrying out move-
ments for the relief of sufferers in the war.

ARCHITECTURE

Perhaps the most notable thing in America is its architecture.
In this direction Art has made rapid strides during the past
twenty years. With the famous sky-scrapers, Londoners are,
of course, familiar ; these have a certain characteristic beauty
of their own. But it is the public buildings and, above all, the
railway stations that most impress the new-comer by their gran-
deur, simplicity and dignity. This applies not only to New York,
but to Washington, Boston, Chicago and other cities. The
modern architecture (derived, of course, from the classic) reflects
the largeness and frankness of modern life. Wherever one goes,
one finds the Georgian prettiness and homeliness, the ornamental
irrelevancies and rococo pretentiousness of the Victorian period
replaced by imposing edifices whose only decoration is that of

19*

292 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

doors, windows and chimneys. The railway stations are built
as great Temples, and must needs be inspiring and mind-enlarging
to the incoming and outgoing travellers. The Cathedrals of
New York are of rare beauty. An imposing building, too, is the
Public Library on Fifth Avenue, though an unconscious peda-
gogic touch is given the lions, who appear to be afflicted with the
adenoid sniff of the superior person. There are many stately
buildings, too, in the Wall Street district. On the eve of my
sailing, I attended a farewell luncheon given by the " Pilgrims."
The feast took place in a large room on the fortieth floor, from
which giddy height one gets an awesome impression of the city
beneath. Such functions are frequent in this city of hospitality,
and are always accompanied by a high order of eloquence, the
late Mr. Choate until his death being a shining light of oratory.
Mr. Chauncey Depew, in his eighty-second year, still retains his
old eloquence and elegance of speech. On the occasion in ques-
tion, he made an oration of glowing eulogy on England, and her
part in the war ; in brilliant metaphor he drew a picture of a
meeting between Shakespeare, George III. and George Washing-
ton in the Elysian Fields ; and ended his speech by conjuring
up in his imagination the kind of play Shakespeare would have
constructed out of the great pageant of events through which
humanity is passing : " The lesson of such a play," he con-
cluded, " might evangelize the world."

The oratory of America is of a high order. It is a land of
a hundred million souls, mostly after-dinner speakers. Even
at an ordinary dinner-table, it is not unusual to hear speeches
by the chief guests. The hospitality extended to guests, and
especially to British guests, is extraordinary ; and the bestowal
of honorary membership of clubs is a great boon to Englishmen.
Especially agreeable are the Country Clubs which every great
city boasts ; these are not only most comfortable and well-
appointed, but afford opportunities for golf and other sports.

THE PATIENCE OF MR. WILSON

I had the good fortune to attend a historic meeting at the
Union League Club on the occasion when Ex-Presidents Roose-
velt and Taft shook hands to bridge over the schism that had

APPENDIX III 293

rent the Republican cause. All the leading Republicans spoke,
including Mr. Hughes, whose election was then regarded as a
foregone conclusion. I confess I was not greatly impressed
with the Candidate's oratory, which was of " the common-
sense, common-place order." This memorable meeting took
place immediately before the General Election. Intense excite-
ment prevailed throughout the States, Mr. Wilson being then
suspected of a policy of drift and indecision. Many of his
sternest opponents have now become his closest supporters, and
are loyally devoting themselves to his cause. Indeed, the
evolution of political atfairs in America bears a strange likeness
to that of England in the early stages of the war, when the
self-effacement of political parties and politicians was one of
the most remarkable proofs of this country's strength in crisis.

Xor does the resemblance stop there. I believe that the
people of England entered into this war to fight for an ideal —
and I believe that the people of America were inspired by a like
ideal, an ideal which has only latterly entered the soul of the
nation. I do not say that political considerations did not in
part animate the calculations of our own statesmen and those
of our American allies ; but I am sure, having addressed myself
daily to American audiences, that their sympathy with the
cause was mainly due to a belief that the cause of England was
a righteous cause, and a consciousness that the two nations
were side by side in the fight for civilization. " It is honour
that will bring you to our side," were words that were always
greeted with enthusiasm. Gradually the feeling has come
the American people that they were too proud not to tight. All
in all, our new Allies have reason to congratulate thems
that Mr. Wilson remained in office. Indeed, since the Presid Dl
great war message, the entire count rv has accepted him as its
official idol. One must admire the whole-hearted national
faith in a leader whose patience, tact and single-mindcdness
have come to be recognized even by his bitterest opponents.

Wilson's action was something between a coup d'etat and a
miracle. Had he made his declaration six months ago, he would
probably have called forth civil war. By appearing to be
holding back, he allowed the people to push him on. In this
situation the President showed the fierce patience of a J< u

294 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

(He is at least of Scotch descent.) Six months ago seven-
eighths of Congress and the country would have been against
him ; to-day seven-eighths are for him. The spirit of the people
had to be prepared, the proletariat had to be hypnotized. What
were the various contributing causes that wrought this change
one can but leave to the political psychologist to determine, as
one may leave him to explain the wonder of the Russian revolu-
tion. But I cannot help thinking that the result was in no
small measure due to the constant and courageous efforts of
the leading Press of New York, who, year in and year out, con-
sistently and almost without exception, championed the cause
of the Allies. The war movement may be said to have been
one of Press and President. It may be granted that in New
York, which is a cosmopolitan city, the task of forming public
opinion was not so difficult, for the cultured and travelled
classes were from an early date of the war for the most part
whole-heartedly on the side of the Allies. The same may be
said of New England and of Washington. Not so the pro-
letariat and the inhabitants of the Middle West and the Far
West, who were too far away from the battlefield to sympathize
with the sufferers or to probe the causes of the war, and who
were not unnaturally guided by motives of local self-interest
rather than by those of a world-patriotism ; while a very large
element was undoubtedly opposed to Great Britain owing to
the ever-open sore of the Irish question. Illogical as it may
sound, there are many who, in their German-Irish sentiments,
would have substituted the "Watch on the Liffey ' for the

' Wearing of the Green." I cannot help thinking that with
the settlement of the Irish question would vanish the last dregs

of bitterness in the cup of Anglo-American relations.

MORE IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA

[From Daily Chronicle, June 19th, 1917, and June 22nd, 1917.]

The personality which, after President Wilson, has the greatest
national appeal, is undoubtedly that of Colonel Roosevelt,
whose, courage, patriotic fervour and catapultic force ' get
over" the people. But the situation needed a Brutus rather
than an Antony. Probably no living man did more to create
respect for the American flag than did Roosevelt during his
Presidential term. If in his retirement he lacked something of
the reticence we associate with greatness, one must remember
that in captivity the lion is apt to roar at the mouse. There
can be little doubt that had the Colonel cultivated cabbages
and held his tongue, he would have been President of the United
States at this moment. Undoubtedly this " fiery particle '
has and will have a dominant influence in the creation of the
American army which is in the making. The God of War has
need of such a man.

It is extraordinary to reflect upon the change that has been
wrought, as it were overnight, in this peace-loving people. Six
months ago two men out of three (even those who were heart
and soul pro-Ally) would shrug their shoulders when the ques-
tion of war was mooted, believing as they did that such a con-
summation was out of the question. One must bear in mind
that the German system of propaganda had been perfectly con-
ducted through the Press and through pamphlets. Literatu
pointing out that Great Britain had made the war for trade
purposes, that the British Navy was a menace to the freedom
of the seas, was put into my hand as I arrived at my hotels.
There can be little doubt that this systematic flooding of the
whole country was largely productive of the mistrust <>r in-
difference which was shown towards the cause of the Allies,

295

296 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

and especially towards England, in the earlier stages of the vrar.
And it is a fact that all along the attitude of the main body of
the people was much more sympathetic to the French than to
the English. To this day it is the " Marseillaise " that wins the
enthusiastic applause of an assembly.

THE HUMAN TOUCH

On the other hand, there was little done in the way of spread-
ing the gospel of the Allied Cause. It is, I suppose, due to a
national trait that the English refrained from resorting to
these propagandic methods, preferring to rely upon the slow
assertion of the truth and the justice of their cause. But this
ethical lethargy has its drawbacks. A truth that is only adver-
tised once is apt to be prevailed over by a lie that is advertised
a dozen times ; and I cannot help thinking that if England could
have spared some of her great men at the beginning of the war,
the understanding and cordiality which, happily, exist to-day
might have been brought about many months ago. It is the
human touch that tells. The American people are like children.
They want to be told, they want to be understood, to be sym-
pathized with, they want to be praised. True, the flattery
must be sympathetic and sincere — the professional genialist is
apt to " come a cropper."

I claim to speak with some authority on this subject, as
for many months past I have daily spoken in public on Anglo-
American friendship, addressing not only nightly audiences in
the theatre, but several times a week have I had opportunities
of addressing Universities, city clubs, bazaars, political meetings,
Church congregations and, latterly, recruiting meetings. Where-
as, in the earlier stages of the war, a speaker was bound to be
discreet, to hang his eloquence on the peg of peace rather than
of war, I latterly found that no pro-Ally sentiment was too
strong for the enthusiastic applause of the public ; nor, strangely
enough, did I receive a single interruption in the course of these
speeches, or a single letter of complaint. I must confess to a
keen d Light in disconcerting my managers. The assertion
that, but for the British Navy, America would have been invaded
long ago and the Monroe doctrine but a scrap of paper, was

APPENDIX III 297

regarded by my managers as unneutral in sentiment. But I
found these indiscretions a solace in my exile.

If there is one force which has a more potent appeal than
another in addressing American audiences, that force is humour.
In that country humour is nowhere suspect — not even in the
pulpit, and audiences are quick as lightning in responding to
its touch. It is by the human appeal that I hear sympathy
is gained. I was discussing the question of public opinion
with an eminent diplomat, who said : " What we have to do is
to tell them what they ought to do — not to tell them what is
right, but to make them like us." The eminent diplomat
proceeded to explain the situation by analogy : " We do not,"
he said, " love a woman for her virtue, but because she is pretty."
Though I had mental reservations as to this somewhat bureau-
cratic view of love, I bowed to my mentor's political discernment.

Among the multitude, there certainly was not wanting in
the earlier stages of the war a kind of ethical indifference.
" What are we going to get out of it ? " would often be asked
by the pro-dollarist. Especially was this the case in the West.
" All the gold in the world is coming our way," said one. I
could not refrain from reminding him that there was a certain
danger in this plethora. A man should not hoard too much
gold in his garden lest his neighbour look over the wall ; for
property belongs to those who have the power to take it. The
truth of this has recently been brought home to us in Russia,
and will probably be made yet clearer after the war. It is only
gradually that the American people have realized the historic
aspect of this war — that America could not afford to stand bv
and let the other countries fight this battle— the battle of civiliza-
tion. The perspective of history has been brought home to the
people by the great leaders, such as Elihu Root and Choat<\
and, above all, by the noble message of the President.

A nation is slow to move. It is necessary to kindle into
flame the ethical glow of a people — for men will not give their
lives for motives of self-interest. I do not profess to know th<^
inwardness of politics, or what may be the underlying exigencies
" behind the scenes," but I am certain that these exigencies
will not lead a people to sacrifice their lives and their homes.
I am certain, too, that an individual has one psychology and a

388 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

multitude another. There is a public and a private conscience
in us all. The hearts of a multitude beat in unison. On several
occasions I told audiences of the scene I witnessed in the House
of Commons twenty-four hours before war was declared, when
Sir Edward Grey said that Great Britain was not bound by her
interests or by treaties to go to war. But when he proceeded
that there was the honour, the good name, of England to be
considered, the entire House rose in one mighty cheer, and
history was made as Big Ben tolled forth the Amen of the Soul
of England. It is, I repeat, the human touch that reaches the
people. It is the sense that the British and American people
are fighting for the democracy of the world that causes men to
consent to universal service during the war, so infinitely pre-
ferable to voluntary service and the degrading system of in-
voluntary service — the recruiting by the white feather of
blackmail.

It was a novel experience to me to address a recruiting meet-
ing, as I had never been afforded an opportunity of doing so
in London. Such a crowded meeting was held " down Town '
in New York during the luncheon hour. Early in my speech
an untoward event caused an interruption. I had just uttered
the words, " Wilson, like Nelson, expects that every man this
day will do his duty," when there occurred a terrific explosion.
There were cries from the crowd. " It has come," I said to
myself, endeavouring to feel dignified in death. When the
smoke cleared away, I found that the panic had been caused by
the all-intruding flashlight photographer. Then there was a
roar of laughter from the crowd. Happily I was able to utilize
the situation by likening it to our own preparedness at the
outbreak of war.

BILLY SUNDAY

One of the most effectual recruiting sergeants is Billy Sunday,
the famous Revivalist, whose audience frequently number
fifteen thousand people — and as he has two meetings a day, he
addresses himself to a vast public. I have no doubt that in this
direction of recruiting " Billy " did splendid service. I must
confess that I regard his religious exercises with mixed feelings.
As I believe it to be his intention to devote a campaign of some

APPENDIX III 299

years to England, it may be interesting to give some impression?
of this remarkable man, who, I understand, makes a profit of
no less than $50,000 in each town he visits.

It was in Buffalo that I heard this. He certainly has the
faculty of taking one's breath away. The sermon took place
in a large tent-like structure, built of wood, which is erected
for the purpose. The acoustics of the vast hall were perfect,
and made me wish that a theatre could be thus constructed.
At the back of the stage, on which thousands (including a choir
of many hundreds) were seated, was the inscription in flaming
letters " Buffalo for Christ," and in front of the improvised
pulpit hung the Star-Spangled Banner. I must confess that T
was not deeply impressed by this fanatic, whose sincerity can
hardly be doubted. There were many intelligent faces among
the congregation, which is made up of all classes. The people
are no doubt deeply moved by the speaker, who indulges in
language which, to put it mildly, is somewhat vernacular. Billy
Sunday provides a cheap way of getting to Heaven — his teach-
ing is of the " open your mouth and shut your eyes " order.
His Hell is inhabited by a knock-about devil. His chief success
lies in saying the obvious : " It is better to see than to be blind ;
it is better to hear than to be deaf ; it is better to be healthy
than to be sick ; it is better to be good than to be bad ; it is
better to go to Heaven than to go to Hell." At this there was
great applause, with exclamations of " How true ! ' This
kind of eloquence never fails of its effect — even in the theatre.
I remember how Sir Augustus Harris saved a melodrama at
Drury Lane Theatre many years ago by the utterance of a great
truth. The play was called A Sailor and His Lass — the manager
was himself part-author and played the leading part — that of
an English midshipman with a leaning towards the fair sex.
Until the end of the second act the success of the play was
trembling in the balance. It was saved by a brilliant inspira-
tion of the manager. Just before the fall of the curtain the
young midshipman came to the front of the footlights and,
taking off his cap, exclaimed in a stentorian voice, which brooked
no contradiction : " For a British sailor is not a woman but a
man ! ' The audience burst into a tumult of applause at the
utterance of this great and indisputable truth ; the piece was

300 HERBERT REERBOHM TREE

saved, and ran for many months to crowded houses. Casuistry
was dumb and humour bent its brow.

Billy Sunday has a way of shouting at the people, and is
most agile upon the platform. He is a retired base-ball player,
and will frequently use the gestures of that admirable sport
in making his point in the pulpit. Never does he allow the
attention of the audience to wander — and woe be to him who
dares to cough, for he is at once demmed to the audience. Yet
withal there is something lovable about the man — if he is never
inspiring, he is undoubtedly hypnotic. He has the something
one cannot explain, or explain away. He is intensely sincere
in his belief in hell-fire, in which he assured us that anyone who
does not believe in the God of Billy Sunday will frizzle ever-
lastingly. His use of slang is inexhaustible, and appears to
delight the audience. He told us that he will have no truck
with protoplasms, and was quite positive that he was not
descended from monkeys. In making this statement, he hopped
about the platform with such alertness that one who had
hitherto been a waverer as to the Darwinian theory embraced it
upon the spot. At one moment he bent over the platform
pretending to listen to a telephonic message from Hell, and at
the end of his address said : " Well, Jesus, I want to thank
you for this pleasant afternoon." At the end he shook hands
with many hundreds. This is called " hitting the trail."

Many of the foremost citizens, including Mr. Rockefeller,
Junior, support Billy Sunday, and by the clergy he is very
largely encouraged owing to his wide appeal and unbounded
popularity. Whether this kind of religion, with its attendant
clerical " boom," is productive of abiding good, or whether it is
merely hysterical and harmful to true spiritual progress, I cannot
pretend to say. Whether the sway of this kind of revivalism
will prevail hereafter will depend upon the lesson of this war — ■
on the need of mankind for a human religion, embodying the
forgotten doctrines of Christ. It will depend on the call for a
new civilization, which shall forbid the sacrifice of millions of
human lives on the altar of politics. We are told, it is true,
that an eminent divine has lately declared that he failed to find
any utterance of Christ which disapproved of war. If this be
true, I cannot help thinking that in making this assertion the

APPENDIX III 801

eminent divine stood perilously between the Devil and the Holy
See. To what extent the churches have influenced the ethical
attitude of the people in this time of times, I do not know. But
a deeply impressive picture of Raemaekers' (the famous Dutch
cartoonist) has been largely helpful in bringing home to the
soul of the American nation that it is those who most love
peace who are most determined to wage this fight to the bitter
end. The picture is that of an American standing in a reverent
attitude before the crucified Saviour. Under it are the words,
" If it be Thy fight, it is my fight."

It is always good manners to accommodate oneself to the
usages of the country in which one is a guest, making due allow-
ance for the inhabitants being " foreigners." This applies even
to languages. " Let us take the lift," said I to a prominent
citizen. " ' Elevator,' we call it," corrected my companion.
A motor was waiting outside. " Can I give you an elevator
in my car ? ' I asked. And we parted friends. I found no
difficulty in "acclimatizing" myself to the more democratic
habit of the people — whether in the theatre, in the hotel, or in
general company. The employees of the theatre soon brought
home to me that the " star " system is tolerated only in the
" Spangled Banner." I have myself an inrooted conviction as
to the equality of men, but I think a kind of official respect is
calculated to expedite business on the stage as well as in other
walks of life. At first it seemed strange to get no answering
" Sir " when I gave an order. So I took to addressing the ser-
vants as " Sir." A modus vivendi was thus gradually estab-
lished, and I found myself addressed as " Boss." Life is a
compromise.

There is a greater freedom between man and man. " Well,
boss," asked the ticket collector in the train, " are you feeling
pretty ' good ' to-day ? ' I replied that I felt rather like that.
He held a green identification ticket in his hand, and, without
another word, deftly but relentlessly placed it in the brim of my
hat. Feeling rather like a book-maker, I asked him if it was
compulsory to wear it like that? "Well," said the official,
" this is a free country, but I guess our President is liable to wear
it like that."

A pleasant little incident occurred at Buffalo Station. A

302 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

coloured porter, formerly an actor, now a " red-cap," took my
luggage, and after putting it in my compartment, refused the
proffered tip, saying : " Allow me to shake hands with you, com-
rade. I saw you as Wolsey the other night, and when in your
speech you spoke about free Russia, I called out ' God bless
you.' I said, " I heard you." He continued : " I have done a
bit of shouting in my time. I played Othello without paint."
Then, turning to the company and the populace assembled
outside, he made a little speech, referring to me as " noble and
godlike." Modesty impelled me to assure him that I was but a
demigod ; but my champion warmly deprecated the suggestion,
saying he did not believe it.

The negroes seemed to me for the most part kindly people,
and their formalities and social amenities are a perpetual source
of interest and delight. They are somewhat resentful if spoken
of as " blacks," preferring to be described as " darkies," or
' coloured gentlemen." In an hotel I said to the female coloured
attendant : "I should like to have my boots darkened." She
replied : ' Sir, that's not my compartment — it's de boot boy."
I said : " Will you kindly ask the boot boy to darken them ? '
She lamented that she was not on speaking terms with that
gentleman owing to a difference in their religious views ; but
she would communicate with the bell-boy on the subject, who
would communicate with the " boots."

I had an interesting experience at the Negro Playhouse in
New York. It is called the Lafayette Theatre. I was told that
if I would consent to make a speech to the audience one Sunday
night the management would give a gala performance of Othello.
Such an invitation I could not resist, and accordingly I went to
the theatre with a party of friends. I was somewhat taken aback
on entering my box to find that "God save the King' was
played, but I bowed as though I were accustomed to this tribute.
The Othello was very powerful, the Desdemona blonde, and fair
beyond the reaches of powder. The theatre was crammed (to
suffocation). I made a patriotic speech, which was received
with much enthusiasm.

APPENDIX III 308

CLOUD WITH A YELLOW LINING

No less important is the question of the Yellow races, the
Japanese being still denied the proprietary citizenship extended
to other nations. In California the Japanese are already largely
employed in agricultural pursuits, and there are not lacking signs
of political threatenings. Standing among the dark committee,
I was a trifle disconcerted on hearing a distinguished English
actress in a box remark in an audible whisper : " How fair our
Herbert looks to-night." It is said that the Black question is
one which will be a burning one in the near distance ; it certainly
is one which will tax the political ingenuity of this democratic
country, for the negro population is increasing by leaps and
bounds, and the education of the people is progressing rapidly,
while many members of the community are wealthy and are
good substantial citizens.

MORE IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA

[From Daily Chronicle, June 24th, 1917, and June 25th, 1917.]

In the West there has appeared a cloud with a yellow lining.
At an hotel not far from Los Angeles a remarkably polite Japanese
attendant took my hat and coat.

' I shall not forget you, sir," said he, dispensing with the
formality of a check. I pointed him out to my host as a singu-
larly intelligent menial. I then learned that he was a highly
educated man, and that when the Japanese Fleet came to the
West, it was my friend in buttons who was the host of the dinner
given in honour of the officers — he it was who proposed the
toast of the Japanese Navy ; it was he who helped me on with
my coat !

In the Far West the Mexican and the Yellow question
undoubtedly filled men's minds, so that they scarce heeded the
great upheaval that shook and shocked the rest of the world.
In California the feeling towards the Allies' cause was un-
doubtedly somewhat neutral, where it was not pro-German,
although I understand a great change has now come over the
spirit of the people.

Certainly, the newspapers in San Francisco and Los Angeles
reflected this indifference, while the widespread German propa-
ganda in the Press and elsewhere led the people to believe that
Great Britain had made the war for trade purposes. As an
illustration of this neutrality, I was confronted on entering
an office with the following printed notice :

"If you want to talk war, join the Army and get paid for
it."

To my surprise, I found the cities of the Middle West, which
contain an enormous German population, in the main warmly
pro-Ally ; it is certainly extraordinary that up to the present

304

APPENDIX III 305

time the prophecies in regard to " f rightfulness ' in these
centres have been entirely falsified. I found that many Germans
were in absolute disaccord with the Germany of the Hohen-
zollerns, being able to estimate at this distance the true state
of things with a more philosophic eye and a saner outlook than
can their compatriots at home. They cannot realize at this
distance why Germany, who, by her enterprises, her industry,
her intelligence and her efficiency, was peacefully annexing the
trade of the world, should sacrifice this bloodless conquest to the
vanity of a dying dynasty.

America is a democracy of all the nations. This was borne
in upon me on visiting Detroit. At his motor works in that
city Mr. Ford employs 45,000 workmen belonging to fifty-three
different nationalities and speaking a hundred different lan-
guages. The works themselves are like a war " in little." It
is an interesting sight to watch the progress of a motor-car
towards its completion. Here is a model of efficiency. The
growing machine moves slowly down as on a river, on either side
of which each workman adds his appointed " bit to the per-
fecting of the car in making. There seemed a tragic monotony
in this system, each man performing the same task each minute
in the eight-hour day. Although Mr. Ford runs his great
undertaking on principles of Socialism, his profit last year
was $60,000,000. He apparently finds it easier to control
his army of contending nationalities than to control a boat-
load of pacifists, few of whom were, I believe, on speaking
terms when the Ship of Peace bumped against the wharf of
Christiania.

The motor-car industry throughout the Western cities is
stupendous. In St. Louis whole streets are devoted exclusively
to this vast industry. Most of these smoke-laden cities bear
a strong resemblance to Clapham Junction — life in them seems
like a very busy bank-holiday. There are rag-time bands in all
the restaurants ; at dinner there is dancing between the courses.
As the band ceases, the hall empties and the city is asleep.

In most of these cities the architecture is of a somewhat pre-
tentious kind, and may be described as rococo Elizabethan,
the houses resembling overgrown dolls'-houses, with Georgian
columns supporting untreadable balconies. At Baltimore, a

30G HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

really delightful city, its residential quarter strongly reminiscent
of Edinburgh, I had the privilege of meeting Cardinal Gibbons,
one of the most influential intellects in the United States and a
most fascinating and impressive personality. Though over eighty
years of age, he takes a youthful interest in worldly affairs, and
is beloved alike by Protestants and Catholics. He expressed his
sense of the great value of the drama as teacher. " Whereas,"
he said, " I preach the Gospel of Christ, you actors preach the
gospel of Shakespeare." Incidentally, I learned from him that
Cardinal Wolsey did not wear his ring upon his index finger
(Of great men one sometimes learns little things.)

One of the most characteristic cities is Chicago, which has
undergone an enormous change in twenty years — it is seething
with energy ; the people are warm-hearted ; there is a barbaric
pagan frankness of life in strong contrast with the somewhat
respectable preciosity of time-honoured Boston, a city that
boasts an older and soberer culture. Boston, too, has its own
characteristics. It is, in fact, very Bostonian (there is no other
word that can quite do justice to it).

At Harvard University there is, I am proud to find, a section
devoted exclusively to the Drama, and great attention is given
to the study of Shakespeare. While at Boston I visited the
town of Lexington, where, 141 years ago, the famous Earl Percy,
at the head of hostile troops, entered what was then a New
England village. It was his visit that brought about the revolu-
tionary war and caused the Republic to come into being. On
the way to Concord we passed the homes of Hawthorne and
Alcott and Emerson, Longfellow and Lowell. Here is classic
ground. These smiling houses of the eighteenth century are all
built of wood and are plastered inside. The Sunday wayside
markets are stocked with all kinds of vegetables, and the vivid
colours of apples and pumpkins gladden the eyes of the stream
of motorists. The pro-Ally sentiment of Boston is, if anything,
stronger than that of New York itself, and the same may be said
of Philadelphia.

Washington has a dignity and an old-world character which
seem to be the natural belongings of the Capital. As the pro-
cession of the " inauguration " of the new President passed down
the wide streets on its way to the White House, one felt that

APrENDIX III 307

the scene was appropriate to the historic pageant which has
brought America into line with the other great nations of the
world in the right for international progress. On the occasion
of my visit to the White House, the suffrage women were stationed
outside like sentries, bearing flags. I wondered how the Presi-
dent of the United States could be so accessible without incurring
considerable personal inconvenience ; but I believe that the
peaceful-looking attendants and the young men who appeared
to be intent on the busy plying of the typewriter were formidable
experts in the art of ju-jitsu. Mr. Wilson has a gracious
presence, and is gifted with the " grand manner " — that of
making people feel at ease at once. " At sight," the President
paid me the compliment of saying that I reminded him of a
well-known statesman. On my bowing with a deprecating self-
consciousness, he remarked that he himself had often been told
of his resemblance to the late Mr. Joseph Chamberlain. The
likeness is indeed striking, though the President's nose lacks the
aspiring lilt which characterized that of the distinguished English
statesman. After me came about fifty American citizens, all
intent upon shaking hands with Mr. Wilson. I wonder whether
there is an ailment known as " President's cramp." As I left
the " presence " I could not help overhearing the whispered
words of a well-known lady who accompanied me : " Mr. Presi-
dent, don't forget Votes for Women." As I went through the
gate in a downpour of rain, the women were relieving guard.
The suffrage question is not regarded with such favour on the
other side as it is here. But assuredly after the war women
in America, as well as in the unfreer countries, will demand that
they shall by their votes be privileged to veto the killing of their
men.

America is a sudden country. She woke up one morning
to find herself in the war. There was hardly any twilight in the
awakening — she simply accepted the fact and settled down to
the business. The coming of Balfour and Joffre was a master-
stroke. Both men were the right men at the right moment —
it was their coming that set light to the prairie-fire of popular
enthusiasm. On the night before my departure the streets
were packed with crowds waiting to see their French hero pass ;
the warlike note was something new, the whole people seemed

20*

.308 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

animated by a new spirit ; flags waved from every window,
the streets were bright with innumerable electric lights ; the
Allied anthems were played in all the theatres. Mr. Balfour
appealed to the American people — perhaps because he was the
most un-American thing in America. They love an Englishman
to be very English.

General Joffre fills the limelight as to the manner born ; he
has the genius of patting little children on the head in the
patriarchal manner. His nod is compelling, he has the genial
flair that almost robs the war-god of his terror. His eloquence
has the rare trick of being monosyllabic. A delightful story
illustrates his blazing bonhomie. A lady asked him at dinner
to tell her in confidence what it really was that stopped the
Germans on the Marne. Turning a beaming broadside on his
interlocutress, Joffre said: " C'etait moil" There can be no
doubt that this country should send more such ambassadors
to America. The two peoples want to know each other better.
There has hitherto been a certain coldness between them. The
supercilious manner of many an ancient Briton has caused some
resentment in the past. The Americans are a very personal
people, and they enjoy being exploited ; they revel in their
hospitality ; they love a " lion." There are a number of men
who have done the State fine service by spreading the message of
Great Britain ; among these are Sir Gilbert Parker, who has
lately visited California, and whose steady and persistent work is
recognized on all sides, Ian Hay, whose lectures are enormously
popular, and Lord Aberdeen, who has the healing touch in
dealing with the Irish question. But I cannot help thinking
that more frequent visits of England's great men would have
the effect of permanently cementing the friendship between the
two nations.

One must remember the old grudge of the War of Libera-
tion— and one must not ignore the Irish question, which at one
time threatened the welcome to the British Commission. Many

the foremost Irish leaders have thrown themselves heart and
soul into the Allies' cause, just as many of its staunchest propa-
gators have been men of German birth or German descent.
Three notable instances are Mr. James Beck, who since the
beginning of the war has been untiring in his espousal of the

APPENDIX III 309

active participation of the United States in the war, and who
has published several stirring books urging the necessity upon
his countrymen. Another strong adherent is Mr. Theodore
Marburg, a man of great wealth and influence.

WORLD PATRIOTISM

Since I have been home I have often been asked the ques-
tion whether the Americans realize the seriousness of the war
and are determined to throw themselves whole-heartedly into it.
My belief is that they do realize to the full the meaning of the
solemn pledge into which they have entered ; they realize that
the present war is the " to be " or " not to be " of the freedom
of the world. The very latest pronouncement of the President
gives noble utterance to this spirit which has seized the whole
nation. It is no longer a question of politics. It is no longer
a question of the Star-Spangled Banner. In this great hour a
new note has been struck — the note of world-patriotism.

The mere politician has his ear to the ground — how should
he hear the message of the stars ? The President went up into
the mountain heights where dwells the soul of the American
people ; there he learned the message of the stars ; and when
he came down from the mountain he bore with him a tablet
on which were graven the words :

" The Right is more precious than Peace."

APPENDIX IV

EXTRACTS FROM HERBERT TREE'S NOTE-BOOKS

[Herbert Tree usually carried in his pocket a small note-book for
jotting down engagements. He used it also for fixing in his memory
ideas that had occurred to him, and anecdotes that he had heard or
invented. After his death a great many of his old note-books were
found here and there among his possessions. A selection from the
entries in them is here offered to the reader.']

An idea of what Hell may be like : Desire without hope.

A work of art should make one say " Ah ! " and not " Ugh ! '

Some are born educated ; they have that inherited know-
ledge which is called instinct.

Viola said, " It takes Father far less time to make himself
ugly than it takes Mother to make herself beautiful."

In order to get on one must stoop to flattery. One must
learn to walk backwards in order to get on.

A Russian in Marienbad was asked what he thought of the
assassination of Plehve. He said, " I am very sorry for the
coachman."

Put your trust in men and not in systems.

Everything comes to him who doesn't wait.

He had none of the modesty of passion.

Of all the arts love is the greatest.

A mad chaos of sea dashing drowned mermaids on a shrieking
coast.

Story of the Man who did not like Tripe

It is said of Theodore Hook that, walking down the street
with a friend, he made a bet that he would cause to be mobbed
an inoffensive old gentleman who was passing by. He said to
a lit il<- boy, " That's the old gentleman who doesn't like tripe."

310

APPENDIX IV 311

The boy told a companion, and they followed the stranger,
crying, " Shame, shame ! That's the old man who doesn't like
tripe." The old man hastened on, trying to escape these atten-
tions. A largeish crowd followed him. He took to his heels —
the crowd running after him, crying, " Tripe ! " " Shame ! '
" Stop, thief ! " He was run to earth. A policeman appeared
upon the scene and arrested him. The prisoner was subsequently
released, but the stigma of not liking tripe clung to him to his
dying day — which was greatly hastened owing to the ignominy
which he suffered. In point of fact, the old gentleman was
devoted to tripe, but, whenever he endeavoured to give utter-
ance to this truth, people only laughed. Thus we see how a
light word may stamp a man for life.

It is easy to sacrifice personal morality to general expediency.
That which a man would shrink from doing for his own sake he
will readily excuse himself for doing when he is a member of a
committee.

A man is allowed to think, but not aloud.

The qualities which we are most boastful of controlling are
precisely those which we do not possess.

Flattery gives us winged feet.

On retiring from the Stage: Better an hour too soon than
a minute too late.

The greatest blunders of the world have been made by
common-sense people.

He was always compromising with God in order not to offend
the Devil.

Iris. Dog licence. " Let by-laws be by-laws."

Never impart your humour to the humourless. They will
use it in evidence against you.

Give what you must, take what you can. (Motto for Mil-
lionaires.)

In Hyde Park I heard a Socialist orator holding forth on the
iniquity of the feeding system in Salvation Army shelters.
" What I say is this," he kept repeating, " bring the food to our
homes."

To sacrifice an epigram on the altar of tact is the last martyr-
dom of man.

312 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

The right to misgovern themselves is the freedom that all
nations claim.

Cynicism is the humour of hatred.

Genius is an infinite faculty for not taking pains.

Freedom costs more than anything.

Silence is the wisdom of fools.

Such an egoist that he thought himself unworthy to tie his
own shoe-string.

You cannot brush your teeth and say your prayers at the
same time.

Oscar Wilde told me that when he went to America he had
two secretaries — one for autographs, the other for locks of hair.
Within six months the one had died of writer's cramp, the other
was completely bald.

" You might think I want to flatter you," said the Commis-
sionaire, " but a gentleman-born coming out of the pit said there
wasn't more than a dozen or so actors in your line of business as
could play the part better."

A gentleman is one who doesn't care whether he is one or not.

I cannot understand why should be so friendly to me.

Can it be that I am failing ?

I often wake in the morning determined not to tell the truth
— but before the sun has set I find myself the richer by another
enemy.

He is an old bore. Even the grave yawns for him.

A lady wrote to me : "I have played Venus in living statuary
and am a total abstainer."

What do they know of Ibsen who only Ibsen know ?

It is difficult to be thoroughly appreciated until one is quite
dead.

I am a man of few words but many speeches.

History is the plaything of poets.

A man never knows what a fool he is until he hears himself
imitated by one.

There is a reason for everything. I have often wondered why
men's heads are of different sizes. It is in order that one may
be able to identify one's hat.

Epitaph on an Acquaintance : He never said a tactless
thing and never did a kind one.

APPENDIX IV 813

Richard II. arriving limp on the Welsh coast— he had just
come back from governing Ireland.

All men are lawyers.

Harry Kemble's telegram : " Pill, pain, pity, pardon."
' Manners ! Manners I " as the caterpillar said to the steam-
roller.

Epitaph for Atheist : J'y suis, j'y reste.

La Raison n'est que la fille naturelle de la Folie fatiguee.

In Italy I saw a courageous wistaria climbing a lightning
conductor.

Gillie Farquhar's definition of a gentleman : An imperfectly
equipped actor.

Eastern proverb : The dogs bark, the caravan passes.

To the gouty all things are gouty.

In our endeavour to cover the ground quickly, the ground is
apt to cover us.

Imitations of Tree are all alike — except Tree's.

Falling in love is largely an affair of habit.

To respect the prejudices of others is the first law of citi-
zenship.

When people stand on their dignity you may be sure they
have no other pedestal.

I will not go so far as to say that all people who write letters
of more than eight pages are mad, but it is a curious fact that
all madmen write letters of more than eight pages.

Methuselah, being asked his age, said, " I am 940." It was
exclaimed that he didn't look a day more than 620.

He lacks nothing but the essential.

We only do really well what we can't help doing.

The sun peeped over the horizon with an inflamed eye.

Somebody said to Tennyson what a pity it was Carlyle ever
married Jane Welch. " No," replied Tennyson. " Had he
not married her, then four people would have been made un-
happy."

No sight is so sad as that of a buffoon turned preacher.

The scene of Wolsey's fall in Henry VIII. at His Majesty's
sometimes played 29 minutes, sometimes 39. It depended on

whether the nervous B or the phlegmatic K was in the

prompt corner. ,

314 HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE

In their old age the humbugs are found out. They have not
the energy to keep up the game.

Fechter's fall in Robert Macaire. The fall was from top to
bottom of the staircase, and had the appearance of being head-
long. Watching a second time, I observed that when Macaire
was shot he instantly bent sideways and clutched the hand-rail
of the banister. Then, with a writhing contortion of pain, he
brought the hand forward on the rail, and, keeping his feet still
on the top stair, slid both his hands down as far as he could,
bringing his head lower and lower till it was somewhat below
the level of his heels. The rest was an easy jump to the lower
stairs, within one or two of the bottom. Here he fell and rolled
down the stage.

An American said : " When is a joke not a joke ? When it's
told to an Englishman ! "

A man went into a store in Chicago. " I want some powder."
" Face, gun, or bug ? " asked the young lady.

An American's home is an interviewer's castle.

The German Emperor made God in his own image.

If your hat blows off, never run after it. Somebody will
always run after it for you.

A committee should consist of three men, two of whom are
absent.

If we don't take ourselves seriously, who will ?

THF END

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